I’m dreaming about day trips to Paris right now – no 1 to see this place, the Maison Louis Carre built by Aalvar Alto; no 2 to visit the Brancusi atelier (which sounds like it might be similar to this and also the Burberry / Henry Moore exhibition); and no 3 to see the new display of black models in French art.
The idea of having a tiffin tin that actually holds a two-tier macaron stand is just too much. Bravo, Postcard Teas.
Wondering if / when I can get my hands on these plates from Refound Objects. Are you tempted, @saintofsoho?
Cherubs on the ceiling. Photos from the fabulous @glory.of.disrepair feed that is based in Germany. This reminded me of my visit to Mannheim last year.
The place I like best in this world is the kitchen. No matter where it is, no matter what kind, if it’s a kitchen, if it’s somewhere where they make food, it’s fine with me. Ideally it should be well broken in. Lots of tea towels, dry and immaculate. White tile catching the light (ting! ting!)
So begins Banana Yashimoto’s novella Kitchen, a warmly comforting read about a girl finding happiness again after an unexpected bereavement, and a friendship that grows into more. For someone who also likes hanging out in the kitchen and who enjoyed Luisa Weiss’ kitchen memoirs, this was perfect lazy reading.
The scratching of our pens mingled with the sound of raindrops beginning to fall …
While he made tea, I explored the kitchen. I took everything in: the good quality of the mat on the wooden floor and Yuichi’s slippers; a practical minimum of well-worn kitchen things, precisely arranged. A Silverstone frying pan and a delightful German-made vegetable peeler…
There were things with special uses like …. porcelain bowls, gratin dishes, gigantic platters, two beer steins. Somehow it was all very satisfying.
I looked around, nodding and murmuring approvalingly, “Mmm, mmm.” It was a good kitchen. I fell in love with it at first sight.
I think of that time of year as a time of green things. Green like me, and unlike the city. Around the same time as the green melons, fruit sellers started to sell yesil erik, green plums…
My first year in Istanbul I didn’t understand the plums. They are small, almost like oversized cherries, and hard. The second year we sit in the heat with whiskey and a saucer of salt in a spot where we can see the Bosphorus flow. Take a plum, bite a piece out, and dip the wet opening into the salt – just so, not too much. Now take another bite. Now a sip of whisky. The salt and the cold tart flesh and the smoky liquor and the ships that go by with their red – blue – grey containers packed high like a child’s wooden blocks do make sense. I begin to laugh. Now, I look forward to the green plums each year.
Green plums in FARE Istanbul. Image by @niftyswank
The customs officer’s cottage, Varengeville. Monet.