Nathalie Bouffe

http://cabbagesandkings.typepad.com ...

...is where you should go for anything nathaliebouffe, until i figure out what to do next.

EBBP 2: beet, porcini and unsulphured-apricot risotto

People at work are starting to get freaked out by these weird packages filled with foreign food that keep showing up with my name on them.

The most recent is from Francesca at Fior di Zucca, a lovely Italian girl who lives in Devon.  She sent me a bunch of ingredients lifted from her pantry, which I was to try to turn into dinner.

When I came home my flatmates, as usual, were splayed on the mattress upstairs in a haze both literal and philosophical.  Ah, yes...it was time to get cooking.

Francesca had sent me, among other things, some dried porcini and unsulphured apricots.  There were some beets lying around the house and I was in the mood for risotto.  To be specific, beet, porcini, and unsulphured-apricot risotto.  Hence:

Yes.  Pink food. 

you go, girl

When someone's organized a photo shoot to capture you, lounging on a sofa on a san francisco sidewalk, surrounded by gaping admirers and wearing cute shoes...that means you've made it.

check it, people:

http://chezpim.typepad.com/blogs/2005/09/eat_my_blog.html#more

congrats, pim!

HAAAALELUJAH!

So....after SIX MONTHS of outlaw blogging...I FINALLY HAVE AN INTERNET CONNECTION.

Expect bigger and better blogging from NathalieBouffe.  Or just more constant updates.  Or perhaps I'll just spend more time reading other people's blogs....

eeeeh!  I am excited.

Blogging By Mail, Euro Edition!

I can’t very well claim Aliki’s address as mine, so all my mail’s been coming to the dairy. There isn’t much—a bank statement once in a while, occasionally a care package hearkening state-side, some shit to do with taxes. This week, though, a package from Sweden sailed in through the slot. A container of boxed wine with a taped-up stopper hole and my name on the side. My Blogging By Mail, Euro Edition box, courtesy of Dagmar from A Cat in the Kitchen!

I didn’t open the package until I met Arista and her friend Ma in Soho Square later that day. The park was as crammed with young wastoids as St-Tropez beaches are with bathers on August afternoons, only instead of manhandling sunscreen the Londoners massaged each other with beer and dope. Manu Chao tinkled from offstage left; halter tops tumbled crookedly off bronzed shoulders; the drunk lunatic who sleeps in the rotunda in the middle screamed and sang and wove obliquely through the picnic blankets. Good old Tuesday afternoons.