Sunday afternoon, 5pm.
Cold mashed potatoes, salami, roast red peppers. Half a smoked mackerel. Tzatziki. One last Danish meatball with mushroom sauce. Toasted Ethiopian sourdough bread. Various combinations of all the above with a mug of green tea: a mash-up of cultures, perfect Sunday food.
There is a vase of fresh mint on the table, a jar of salt and several abandoned water glasses. I am listening to David Foster Wallace’s “Consider the Lobster” read in his languid, serious tones.
I planted herbs on my balcony: rosemary, verbena, oregano. With which I made: A simple chicken liver pate: 100g chicken livers, seared in a little oil, then blitzed with shallots, oregano, salt and pepper until smooth. And lemon verbena religieuses, with a lemon curd glaze, one green leaf on top.
I poached organic chicken breast for my new (spoiled) kitten, Edith. She accepted it with a haughty, disdainful air.
I made fig jam with the Grape Leaf Club, a select few culinary nerds, while baking Toulouse sausages with the extra figs, red onions and tomatoes for our late supper.
I tried the twisted crown of a pesto pinwheel bread from the British Bake Off with radish-leaf and almond pesto.
I marked my Franceversary (four years!) with a cheese-party at my apartment: every guest brought their favourite cheese; I made bread, bought apples, grapes, chutney. And celebrated Ethiopian New Year with generous platters of food at a local restaurant. (Melkam Addis Amet!)
And in between, I have been eating a lot of boiled eggs. I like to draw faces on them with felt-tip pens, so they don’t get mixed up with the raw ones.