Äppelmos with vanilla and cinnamon

It was a little over a year ago; we’d brought home a mid-century secretary desk, the kind that received many layers of white paint over the years. It had a bookshelf, very much a happy mismatch of cookbooks, jars of kombucha, porcelain figurines, candles and notebooks. And two cupboards. The one of the right had draws made of birch reminiscent of an old map storage ...

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Apple pie shortbreads

On snow. The first snow didn’t settle onto the ground. That night, the clouds broke into minute snowflakes as we stepped out from the house. And just like I did last year and the year before that, I stopped and stared into this black and white kaleidoscope for what could have been a nightlong, a lifelong really. It’s been snowing every day ever since. Flakes ...

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PS. We picked apples and made cider. Oh and an apple cake too!

One morning, we woke up to lights through the wooden blinds barely covering never-ending windows. Coffee got made. And we sat on the steps overlooking the garden. Early signs of autumn, drawn to the earth in the shape of dew that made our feet wet as we walked to the apple tree. Apples as white as snow. His dad said they were called Transparentes blanches. ...

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Un gâteau aux pommes et au cidre

[A cider and apple cake, not unlike a tatin tart] There was a night made of champagne, flickering candles, crisps and smoked salmon sandwiches, the last of the foie gras smothered onto big fat chunky pieces of baguette, an endless game of trivial pursuit where – as it turned out – the one person who refused to play (my father, apparently stuck to his mots ...

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