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It turns out that when I get anxious about the president precipitating the apocalypse, I make ice cream.
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Maraschino cherries, or at least the artificially bright red super sweet cherries that are plunked into Manhattans and nestled atop ice cream sundaes, are polarizing.
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A gin and tonic is a fine drink. It’s tough to beat on a summer day, with its effervescence and its botanical fragrance and it’s hit of citrus.
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I didn’t think I needed another ice cream book.
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I’ve entered a phase in my life where I want to spend most of my time in soft clothes, old t-shirts, jeans that are so worn threadbare in patches I dare not put them in the washing machine, jersey
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Who wants chicken for dinner?
It turns out I do. At least if it’s crispy and rubbed with a spicy garlicky cashew sauce.
