Vinyl formation. Hot glue gun apotheosis. Interminable joy. A frustration in the eyes of the mad man.
I don’t think the Faroese understand that they attract tourists; I don’t think they see themselves as worthy. They are wrong.
I used to work as a chef in a chain Italian restaurant. I took the whole chef thing very seriously, and was very snooty about the whole thing.
Can we all just strap on a pair and grow up about grains? There has been too much hype, too much over-promotion, about grains as “superfoods”: they’re just great to eat.
I love words; I love music; I love to cook. I also, kind of, like recipes where they are written as something to read, not purely as some kind of technical document. They’re entertaining, no?
I was wearing shorts and sandals, and a big sheet of plastic. I looked massively ridiculous and I did not care.
Each night I would pore over guide books, plotting routes all over the city, hoping to pluck up the courage to make my way in to any one of the eateries that I aspired to get in to. There was no barrier but my own insecurity.