There is no better cure for fear than making a soffrito. I might have written this before: it’s still true. There is no room for fear in soffrito, no room […]
My friend Caroline wrote about how she will be at sixty-one, and I wrote about being eighty-six. When I am eighty-six I will eat broth from a bone china bowl: plump chicken poached slowly, drizzled with the very tiniest drops of white truffle oil, broccoli steamed with lemon and salt.
A stock for the almost very worst days, the days when leaving the house is too hard, when everything seems impossible. This is a stock, or a soup, and it is good, and warm. This is a stock for the worst days; it is a good stock.