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I have baked 12 dozen madeleine cookies in the past three weeks. Twelve dozen. Why the feverish baking spree, you ask? I blame my boss.
It all started a couple months ago when he made a literary allusion that sailed over my head. “You know, like Proust’s madeleines,” he quipped during a meeting. Proust, Proust… I scrunched my eyebrows together, scrambling for a mental foothold. The French guy, right?
Clearly I had some homework to do. Fortunately it involved butter and sugar.
Hi friends. Long time, no posting. Sorry about that. I have a recipe in the works but it’s not quite ready for prime time—soon, I hope. In the meantime, allow me to direct you to the latest and greatest feature of this blog: a recipe index!
My dog, Denali, has a bone to pick with you. She heard an ugly rumor that some of you readers think she wants to, ahem, eat the chickens.
“Somewhere between the bottom of the climb and the summit is the answer to the mystery why we climb.” – Greg Child
Do you think plants ever have existential questions? You know: Why am I here? What am I good at? From my vantage point, it sure doesn’t look like it.
