A low-key Saturday night supper, with Call The Midwife on Netflix

When work is being especially challenging, I make it a point on the weekends to do absolutely nothing — as much as doing nothing is possible, that is. I never actually managed to make it to the mall this afternoon — or make banoffee pie.



I did get my passport photos taken for a tourist visa I need to book for an upcoming trip to China and I battled the crowds at the Apple store to pick up a new router — the Airport I have is ten years old. TMI, sorry.



Anyhoo. Most of the time, doing nothing as much as possible involves Netflix and low-effort food that can be eaten out of a bowl. With a spoon.


Tonight, it was pasta (two shapes!) with a homemade tomato-basil sauce (no cooking required — just some tomato puree, garlic oil, Maldon sea salt, freshly ground black pepper, and some basil) tossed together in some Tupperware — because, I figured, if I just ate it out of a giant plastic resealable container, I wouldn't have to repatriate any leftovers, I could just slap a lid on and pop it in the fridge afterwards. Yes, that pretty much sums up how lazy (yet efficient) I can be.

So that was my Saturday night in: a warm bowl of orecchiette and rigatoni in Gladware with season three of Call The Midwife on Netflix. The best.



What's your go-to lazy weekend-on-the-sofa supper?

Saturday morning ritual

Saturday morning ritual: get of bed around 10 or 11, put the kettle on, and climb right back into bed with a mug of Yorkshire Tea, my laptop, and whatever cookbooks I feel like dragging in with me to plan the weekend's activities: shopping, movie-going, cooking.

Today I'm thinking about going to the mall—I'm feeling very strongly about having a late-afternoon mall food court lunch and maybe seeing a movie in a suburban theater (they sell better snacks)—and putting together a banoffee pie. I haven't had banoffee pie in years, but it's one of my all-time favorite desserts.


Blog obsession of the day: Culinary BroDown on Epicurious

It's no secret that CulinaryBroDown is one of my favorite up-and-coming food bloggers on the entire internet. He writes for Epicurious sometimes. Here's his latest—an ode to his friend's mom's Pav Bhaji. And here are my favorite lines from the story:

· "The night progressed as planned — beer pong, king's cup, listening to Usher's "Yeah" on repeat for six hours — standard teenage kickback accoutrements."

· "We were too drunk to drive, too lazy to walk the requisite 1.5 miles, and too stupid to realize that we easily could have called a cab. That left us with two options: raid the fridge or eat Brandon."

· "I drove down to a local Indian grocery store to pick up all the requisite ingredients. I also bought a bunch of Indian sweets to fuel me through the cooking process, because eating candy for breakfast is a responsible, adult decision."

· "This is the gestaltian moment where all the individual parts become one, and you look down at the pot and go, 'Oh yeah, that’s why I’ve been doing this for the last hour instead of watching college football.'"

· "I even threw in an extra half stick of butter because I don't care about my body."

· "Even though I don't have the expertise and deft hands of an experienced cook, I do have an insatiable urge to make every recipe into a glorified Taco Bell item, which is what led to the pav bhaji chalupa."

Christopher Kane remembers Louise Wilson

“Soon after Louise died, we found a box of photos dating back to my time on the MA at Saint Martins,” says Christopher Kane. “There were pictures of me in Louise’s office, of Tammy trying on clothes I was making in my bedroom. Because of those 18 months on the MA, because of meeting and being taught by Louise, I am where I am today. There were dresses that I was making then, things that were not shown, that featured coils, cords and ropes. I decided to revisit them, that simple cord idea sparking other thoughts. There are ‘controlled explosion’ dresses, with explosions of tulle intrinsic to their structure, like they are about to take off. There are other explosions, where dresses are deconstructed and seeming to fall apart, their boning exposed – these have been developed and grown from really old drawings from that time. We have started to revisit ourselves in our collections; this is something that has changed. Here, we are looking back to our time with Louise, but also looking forward. Finding those pictures from the MA, this collection was meant to happen.”

Jen & Eric at the Hill-Stead Museum


I always think that one ought to have a lot to say when one of your oldest friends gets married, but when it comes down to it, the only thing I can ever do at weddings is marvel at anyone's ability to make this kind of lifelong commitment. Also, I'm always amazed, deeply impressed, and baffled at how two people who are so perfect together even managed to find each other in the first place. I love it when people I care deeply about find their persons. Weddings and marriages are some of the happiest and most supernatural-spectacular of all human social constructs. Love is the answer, all you need, actually, etc.

Adele / Promise This cover

Danny's selling his house.

One of my best friends, Danny, is selling his house in Bucks County, PA. I've spent a lot of time at this house and I love it so much. It's a remarkable property that's full of personality, wide open vaulted spaces, and incredible light.

Just re-reading Sarah Mower's essay in Self Service

"Helmut Lang was in our souls. Meshed into our identities. I think we must have felt about him the way war-weary women in the 50s felt when they were swept up by Christian Dior's swooningly romantic New Look, or how pioneer female executives were electrified when Giorgio Armani made them soft pantsuits in the 80s. A vital dynamic gets triggered when a truly great fashion designer goes to the core of a generation's aspirations. In real time, it helps us realize who we are; assures us everything's okay, just as we are. That's why people cried at Helmut Lang shows. He was saying who we were."
"Observe Everything. Always think for yourself. Never let other people make important decisions for you." — from Bad News by Edward St. Aubyn