As someone who doesn’t much adhere to the habit of a conventional breakfast (by which I mean eating a meal first thing in the morning), I do love breakfast foods. I see no reason why something as good as a perfectly cooked omelette should be relegated to the wee hours of the morning only. The French seem to have this right—bistro menus often feature an omelette (fluffy and yellow, rolled into a fat cylinder, without a speck of browning on the surface) oozing Gruyere cheese, dotted with fines herbes, and accompanied by a tangle of lightly dressed greens and a glass of white wine.
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At bath time, he squeals with glee as soon as I lower him into the tub, kicking and splashing the second his chubby thighs touch the warm water. I leave the faucet running so that he can hold his hands underneath it—it’s mesmerizing to witness someone else mesmerized: his body stock still at the sensation, his mind whirling so rapidly I swear I can almost see it humming behind his eyes.
I hand him a small plastic cup with a perforated base. I sink the cup deep into the water and yank it up high with a cheerful wheeee! — the water streams out of the tiny holes like a rainforest shower. He laughs and laughs: a delighted belly laugh that overtakes him.
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The neighborhood is in bloom. The magnolia trees have burst into clouds of pink. The limbs of the cherry trees are tipped with tightly furled green buds, and any day now, they’ll concede the fight and let go, allowing the pale pink blossoms to emerge. It seems to happen overnight; you fall asleep with wintery-looking foliage and wake up to a village that looks like it’s dotted in puffs of cotton candy.
Read moreALL ABOUT FROSTING
Let’s talk about frosting for a minute. While it’s not as controversial a hot-button topic as, say, the student debt crisis or universal health care, it does seem to elicit strong opinions. And look, I like frosting! A lot! I also attempt to maintain a modicum of restraint when faced with it, because unlike when you’re a kid, it turns out that it’s not entirely appropriate for a self-respecting adult to come to blows over the piece of cake with the most frosting. (I think this is in the “How to Comport Yourself Maturely and Act Your Age Handbook” which I cannot place for the life of me! I’m sure it’s on my bookshelf somewhere. Pretty sure. It must be.)
Read moreCRUNCHY SEED-TOPPED PROSCIUTTO SALAD
My phone buzzes with a message from my mom—she’s sending me an article by Leandra Cohen in her Substack newsletter. It was sent to her by a friend (hi Zoe!), who is the sort of person whom you’d want on a hiking trip with you for hours of conversation: funny and thoughtful and curious about everything. Leandra’s piece is written as a letter to her daughters. In it she writes: “I had been thinking that here, on the occasion of your first birthday, I had this chance to sensationalize how profound and electrifying and intense it had been to be your mom. And it was all those things! It is. But it has also been remarkably tedious and frustrating and boring and at times, even soul-crushing. This has shown me something significant.”
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