Ireland has been having a glorious heat wave, which I’m going to blame for my delay in writing and just about everything else. The sun has been shining, uninterrupted, for so long that I hardly recognize the place. Where are my productivity clouds and constant pissing rain?

Everyday, as I head down to the sea, I feel like I am on an island off the coast of Greece. Crystal blue water, samphire and aster growing out of the jagged rocks, rogue palm trees dotting the coastline, and not a cloud in the sky. I linger in my hidden cove, eyes shut, unsure if I am really here.

That is until a thick Cork accent comes around the corner, catching me in the nip, saying, ”Please dear girl, do not put clothes on for my sake.”

Not so hidden, I guess.

After on-the-go travel in France and northern Italy, it took longer than expected to get settled here. Everyone in West Cork grins at me and says, “Welcome home,” which is the greatest feeling in the world, but I’ve underestimated how long it takes to return home, mentally. To nest. To acclimatize. To feel present.

I will never forget the first day of orientation on a study abroad semester in Paris, when our school counselor was giving advice on transitions. She was worried about a bunch of 19 and 20-year-olds being homesick (ha!).

“Planes travel faster than emotions,” the counselor said, “So give yourself a few weeks. Your body might be here, but your brain and heart are still back where they came from.”

Planes travel faster than emotions. It has always stuck with me.

I suppose it is one reason I prefer slow travel. A train, a car, a ferry, a bike, my feet.

I have spent a full week rearranging my room here, buying scarves for curtains, stacking new books at my bedside, ordering a mattress topper, and searching for the perfect desk.

I was particularly impatient last Sunday when all the typical furniture stores were closed but managed to find an antique store outside of Leap that was open (RH Interiors, if you’re local). They had a gorgeous sideboard for sale. No desks.

“We had desks for years and no one bought them,” the owners told me, “Then the pandemic came and everyone was working from home and we got cleared out.”

I didn’t want to go another day without a dedicated work surface (I can’t mentally nest until I physically nest), and I figured the sideboard could be a desk now and eventually transition to its intended purpose, full of heavy cutlery in my dream farmhouse kitchen. In a low chair, my knees fit just underneath the drawers.

Now that she’s set up, I’ll write anywhere but here.

That’s just how it goes with writing. You need a place to escape from.

I got into ice cream bombes last summer because a child begged me.

Children and begging: the impetus for most good things.

This bombe is a show-stopper and could not be easier to make. You need no skills, just access to a freezer big enough to hold the thing.

The essential ingredient is McVitie’s dark chocolate digestive biscuits. They make a delicious “sand” that you won’t get from any other cookie. If you are in the States, you can find them in some specialty food stores or online. They stock them at the Park Slope Food Coop (checkout aisle, lefthand side, 2nd to last row from the bottom).

You can make your bombe with homemade ice cream. But store-bought is fine. In fact, store-bought is the point.

Save your energy for the chaotic mess that is serving this dessert and dealing with children who will be bouncing off the walls.

Ice Cream Bombe

Here, ice cream and ground-up digestive biscuits are stacked in a bowl to make a simple bombe. The whole thing is forgiven in appearance when you un-mold the bombe and pour the chocolate shell over the top.

Once you start working, you need to move swiftly. The ice cream must be malleable, and it goes from malleable to melting quickly in the summer heat. I like making this bombe a full day in advance so that it has ample time to re-freeze before un-molding.

YIELD: 18–24 servings

EQUIPMENT: A freezer-proof mixing bowl (plastic or metal is best) about 5 Liters in volume. Clingfilm.

INGREDIENTS

about 4.6L of ice cream, in at least three different flavors (I tend to buy 1L of one flavor, then 1.8L each of the second two flavors)

866g dark chocolate digestive biscuits (2 large sleeves of McVitie’s)

400g dark chocolate

100g butter or coconut oil

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Start by prepping your bowl. Cover the inside of a 5L freezer-proof bowl with clingfilm. Two long sheets in a cross formation should do. Press the clingfilm as best you can so that it adheres to the sides of the bowl. Make sure there is enough of an overhang over the sides.

   

2. Take your ice cream out of the freezer. Let it sit out about 8–10 mins, softening. (If I’m just back from the market, I’ll put the newly bought ice cream tubs straight into the fridge as they’ve already softened on the car ride home. Then I get to work right away.)

3. Meanwhile, blitz your digestive biscuits. Place one sleeve at a time into a food processor (or Thermomix), and pulse until they are turned to sand. Set aside.

   

   

4. Once the ice cream is malleable, start layering it. Your goal is to create at least 3 layers of different flavors. Start with your first flavor (about 1L of ice cream), smooshing it into the bottom of your bowl. Even it out as flat as you can using a rubber spatula.

   

   

5. Next, add a layer of digestive biscuit “sand”. You can eyeball the amount of sand– the goal is to cover the ice cream completely. Use your hands to press the crumbs down gently. This helps to compact the bombe.

   

   

6. Carefully spoon your second flavor of ice cream (about 1.8 L) evenly over the digestive biscuit layer. Once spooned, use your spatula to smooth this layer flat.

   

7. Sprinkle more digestive sand to cover the ice cream, creating a second layer of crumb.

   

   

8. Add your final ice cream flavor (about 1.8L), smoothing it across the top of the bowl. The bowl should be filled almost to capacity.

   

   

9. Add a final layer of digestive sand, pressing it into the ice cream again. This will help soak up any super melty bits. Then cover the bowl tightly with clingfilm, and transfer it immediately to the freezer for at least 6 hours or overnight.

   

10. Fifteen minutes before you are ready to serve, make the chocolate shell. In a double boiler, melt the dark chocolate. Once melted, whisk in either butter or coconut oil until the mixture is silky smooth. Set aside.

11. Un-mold your bombe. Remove the top layer of clingfilm from the bowl. Place a tray or large platter, overturned, on the rim of the bowl, then flip the whole thing over. Run a dishtowel under warm water and place the warm towel around the outside of the bowl. The bowl should lift off easily, leaving behind the bombe covered in clingfilm.

    

    Carefully peel back the clingfilm and discard it.

    

12. Slowly pour the chocolate shell mixture over the bombe. Let the chocolate run down the sides and coat the bombe as evenly as possible.

    

    

    

13. The shell should begin to harden right away. Work quickly to prick the cake with any candles.

    

    Once the chocolate shell has hardened, you are ready to sing, “Happy Birthday” and get serving! Have many plates and a very sharp knife at the ready. Cut slices about 3/4-inch thick. It will be a mess. Just keep cutting.

    

    

    Once everyone has been served, you can cover any remaining cake in clingfilm and store it back in the freezer.

    A cheeky slice in total solitude is pretty nice the next day :)

It is a good season for cherries. And, according to my aunt Susie, the best season for apricots in years. I bought three kilos at the market this morning and they are divine.

The very pregnant vendor looked at me like I was a little nuts. And if you’ve never been with me to the market in Provence, I do loose my mind, starting with the crème de marrons. I explained that there were 14 of us back at the house. “Je fais une tarte,” I said, raising my eyebrow. “Je vais venir,” she replied.

Today’s letter is a short addendum to yesterday’s peach, raspberry, and cherry cobbler.

We’re here to pit cherries without a cherry pitter.

Fuck the pitter! I’ve used them all from the manual to the highly electric and they’re not for me. Plus, who wants an appliance that does only one thing for one specific season?

I like using my hands.

If the cherries are particularly ripe, you can simply tear them by hand with no force other than your fingers. I have a fond memory of doing this in Provence years ago, on a photoshoot for Melissa Clark’s Dinner in French, which is in my top three of Melissa’s vast cookbook oeuvre and I’m not biased whatsoever :) One of my favorite recipes is in this book: Melissa’s “Cardamom and Cherry Cake.” It’s worth getting the book for this recipe alone (and the chocolate rye cake with spiced crème anglaise, the sheet pan ratatouille, the apricot tarte tatin…). It is a yogurt-based loaf cake that has become my base recipe for all loaf cakes, and now as I type this I think I will reserve some cherries to make this cake.

On the shoot, I spent longer than was necessary tearing cherries by hand for the brilliant and very funny food stylist, Joss Herd. I could not stop marveling at the fruit. I was living in a still life that I could taste. To this day, they were probably the best cherries I’ve ever had– dark in color, perfectly tart, and somehow “falling off the bone” (the stem?!).

My takeaway from years of prep-cooking is that produce processing (shelling favas, pitting cherries) is the best opportunity to zone out. In a good way.

Take it. Pick a seat with a good view.

How to Pit Cherries

Put down a cloth or sheet of parchment on whatever surface you are working on. Place two medium-sized bowls with high sides and one lowball glass on your work surface. One bowl is for pressing the cherries and the other is for collecting the pitted remains and their juices. The lowball glass is your crushing device (a heavy whiskey glass is my fave). The glass also doubles as a mini-compost for the pits and stems.

In our modern world, we seem to have forgotten about crushing with brute force as a kitchen skill. It still works.

This method keeps the cherries whole, which is how I like them for cobbler. Or salads with goats cheese. Or cherry pie.

The high sides of your bowl will catch any juice spray.

I should mention that I don’t mind getting my fingertips stained, but if you care, you can wear a pair of plastic gloves.

You can crush one to four cherries at a time. This afternoon, I enlisted the help of my sister and she managed three very well.

We sat under an umbrella and got in the rhythm: de-stem the cherries, place a few in the bottom of one bowl, use the glass to crush them, fish out the pits, discard the pits, tip the cherries and their juices into the second bowl, repeat.

Pitted cherries are best used right away but can hold in the fridge for one day (they will accumulate a little more juice as they sit).

For cobbler, be sure to pit them à la minute.

“Like Sex and the City… if Carrie ate." – Maddy de Simone

Every summer my friend, the Hot Architect, rents a “shack” by the beach. Because I can cook, and because we are both perfectionists with similar house habits that border on the obsessive compulsive, I get the invite.

The rental is bigger than a shack, but the term is affectionate for the nature of the house. It is “falling apart” as rich people like to say about buildings that are, in fact, structurally sound.

The house is a little decrepit, sure. The paint is chipping. The appliances are all pre-2000s. The furniture is rattan with well-worn cushions in a rip-off William Morris Victorian Garden print (it hides stains well). The closets are stuffed with junk and the dresser drawers, warped by the sea air, barely open. On the ground floor, each room is at a different level and the thresholds are low, which means there is ample opportunity to trip hard and run your forehead into a wall.

But the light is good. The kitchen doesn’t suck. And there is a deck. A big deck. It splays out over the harbor and has more surface area than the shack itself.

“This house defies everything I believe about architecture,” says Hot Architect. “It’s all wrong, but it makes me happy.”

“No duh,” I say.

We spend a lot of our conversations trying to verbalize this fact: that it is better to be in an old shack with good light and a generous cross breeze than a palatial new-build with insulated windows. Just as it is better to be with loose, imperfect, smiling people than rigid, refined, playing-perfect types.

“Always be more concerned with how the house makes you feel than how the house looks,” I say, “Isn’t that what good architecture is about? How it makes you feel?”

“Architecture,” he proclaims, staring up at a cottage cheese drop ceiling, “is a luxury.”

We spend most of our time at the shack outside of the shack.

We sit on reclining chairs on the deck, reading and eating and sunning ourselves.

We hate sunscreen. It is one of the things that bonds us. That and the same philosophy on doing dishes (by hand and right away).

I talk a lot and sometimes he responds by simply reciting a quote. Jane Austen: “Never settle.” His dad (via Paul Newman?): “It’s always darkest before it’s pitch black.”

He tells me something about how, according to Aristotle Onassis, one of the only three things a man needs to be successful is a tan.

I ask what the others two things are.

“Live in an elegant building– even if you are in the cellar. Be seen in smart restaurants– even if you only nurse one drink. And if you borrow, borrow big.

“That’s more than two,” I say.

“I knew you were going to say that,” he says.

“You think Onassis would approve of this shack?” I ask.

He laughs.

Only when we are hungry, do we go inside to cook.

People complain a lot about rental kitchens, but after years cooking in many different ones, you know what is the key to success? Adjust your recipes and your expectations. As long as the kitchen doesn’t suck (which means the appliances work and there is free counter space with one sharp knife), you can eat very well. Do not try to be ambitious. Do not make a Dominique Crenn Michelin star recipe. Nothing that requires many knife cuts. Pick things that can be cooked in a brutish way. Things you can boil. Things you can bake. Things that are forgiving of fluctuating hot-to-not rental ovens.

This cobbler is just that. It has been my go-to summer dessert from an older summer rental– a cottage that my mom used to take me to on Shelter Island. We first made it there from a Renee Erickson recipe in an old Food & Wine magazine. It makes use of a simple batter that is then layered with sugar and hot water. This becomes the hot sugar crust.

It is better than any biscuit topping (which I often find quite dense) and will be baked in all my rentals to come.

One morning, last August, I woke up, expecting Hot Architect to have the Bialetti brewed and some scrambled eggs made (the two kitchen things he has mastered) but instead came downstairs to find him standing over the sink, eating leftover cobbler, fridge-cold, directly out of the baking dish.

What could I say?

Some things that are good hot are just as good cold.

I grabbed a spoon and we fought til the last nectarine.

Summer Rental Cobbler

adapted from Renee Erickson

Cobbler is best with stone fruit (peaches, nectarines, apricots, or cherries) and berries (raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, strawberries). My favorite combination is peach and raspberry. Yet the start of cherry season has been so good that I’ve been adding a handful of cherries too. Peach, raspberry and cherry cobbler: total winner. (I’ll send out a separate post tomorrow on my approved method for pitting cherries).

The weights for the fruit here are a guide but your eyeballs are the best measure! Layer the fruit directly in the pan to avoid compacting it. You want to just cover the base. Do not let the fruit take up more than half the height of the pan. If the pan is too packed, the cobbler will end up soggy and nobody wants that.

YIELD: 6–8 servings

EQUIPMENT: 9” or 10” metal cake pan (at least 2” deep); handheld mixer or stand mixer

INGREDIENTS

4 peaches or nectaries (500g total with pits)

2 heaping cups cherries (225g total with pits)

2 heaping cups raspberries (200g)

1 large lemon

60g salted butter, soft at room temperature

160g sugar (for the batter)

100g all purpose flour

1 1/2 tsp baking powder

90g whole milk

50g sugar (for the topping)

60g boiling water (just shy of 1/3 cup)

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Preheat the oven to 375F. Line a baking sheet with a silicone mat and set aside– this will catch any bubbling juices and keep your rental oven clean.

2. Pit your peaches, cutting them in half. Arrange the halves, skin side up at the bottom of your cake pan.

   

3. Pit the cherries, keeping them whole or in halves. Strew them over the peaches, along with any juice.

   

4. Scatter the raspberries on top of the peaches and cherries.

   

   The goal is to cover the base of the cake pan with fruit so you do not see the bottom. Do not layer the fruit more than halfway up the sides. This is prefect:

   

5. Zest the entire lemon over the fruit. Juice the lemon and drizzle the juice over the fruit, ensuring no seeds make it into the cobbler. Set aside.

   

6. Make your batter. In a large bowl, using a handheld mixer, beat the soft butter and 160g of sugar for one minute (you can also use a stand mixer or beat the batter by hand with a wooden spoon). The end result will look a bit grainy. That is fine. Add the flour and baking powder and beat on a low speed until incorporated, about 30 seconds. The mixture will look crumbly. Also fine.

   

   

   

   

   

7. With the mixer running on the lowest speed, pour in the milk.

   

   Increase the speed to medium and beat until the batter becomes much lighter in color and texture, about 2 minutes. It should look like this:

   

8. Dot the batter on top of the fruit, using a rubber spatula to scrape every last bit from the bowl.

   

   Spread the batter as evenly as you can across the pan, covering the fruit completely.

   

9. Next, build the hot sugar crust. Once you do this step, you’ll want to work swiftly to transfer the cobbler to the oven. Start by getting your water boiling.

   Sprinkle the remaining 50g of sugar evenly over the batter.

   

   Next, weigh/measure the boiling water and pour it gently and evenly across the sugar top (pouring from a fluted measuring cup makes this easy).

   

10. Place the cobbler onto the lined baking tray and transfer it to the oven.

    

    Cook the cobbler for a total of 70–80 minutes. You are looking for the fruit to be bubbling, just starting to thicken at the sides but still somewhat runny (it will thicken as it cools). The hot sugar crust will be a golden camel color and fully cooked through.

11. Let the cobbler cool for 30 minutes. This is necessary for the juices to settle and thicken. When ready to enjoy, scoop spoonfuls of the cobbler onto plates or into bowls. It is perfectly balanced on its own. I find cream or ice cream a little distracting when the fruit is so good. But gild the lily if you wish!

    

    

    

    If there are leftovers, the cobbler will hold in the fridge for up to five days. Let it come to room temperature or warm it slightly in the oven before eating.

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    This newsletter is made by an impatient human.

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The past two days have been so brutal in NYC that I could not walk more than five blocks without breaking into a dead sweat… and that was at a glacial pace.

This morning we are getting a little reprieve, which is only to say that it’s not stifling. Still, the temperatures are heading into the high 80s.

You should make lemonade today.

Whether it’s for your inner child, your actual child, a lemonade stand, or just a vehicle for tequila during the big game, this recipe will not let you down.

I rarely order lemonade when I’m out because 1) it’s almost never fresh squeezed and 2) it’s always too diluted.

I have a gripe with watery lemonade. I get that it’s a good money-maker and probably better for my sugar intake, but if I wanted water, I would be drinking water. Craving a glass of cold lemonade is rare for me! And if I am going to the effort of fresh squeezing, you can bet I am going to honor the juice and make something truly delicious.

There is one thing that will change your homemade lemonade game: an electric juicer. Not the fancy I-can-juice-all-fruits kind, just a simple countertop citrus juicer. I did not grow up with this kind of appliance– my mom had one of those fold-and-press handheld juicers that I always hated, frustrated that they could only squeeze so far, leaving un-juiced citrus meat behind. Now that I have an electric one, I’m never going back. This juicer is a constant invitation to eat more fresh citrus and drink delicious things (we’ll need another post to talk about fresh squeezed oranges and margaritas). I cannot tell you how much use my little CitriStar juicer gets. It’s there for me when I need batches of hot lemon & honey in the depths of winter sickness.

Here are the three approved juicers in my kitchen:

This, on the other hand, will never be allowed in my home:

I’ll save the rest of my thoughts on juicing, but for today… Lemons! Not diluted!

Follow the ratios below and you will win at homemade lemonade. And no, it’s not crazy to weigh the ingredients.

You can also watch me make this since I am disobeying the 80-year-old in me to crea some Instagram reels. Six hours wasted? Or, my face! On the internet!

There must be something I say in this 3 minute video that inspires something in your own home kitchen.

And before you ask, the sexy orange jug is from Falcon Enamelware :)

Fresh Lemonade

YIELD: about 1.2 L lemonade

INGREDIENTS

¾ cup boiling water (170g)

1 cup (200g) organic sugar (FYI, white caster or granulated sugar will be sweeter)

1 1/3 cup (290g) fresh squeeze lemon juice (from 6–7 lemons) – I like to keep the pulp, but feel free to strain

3 cups (700g) cold water

INSTRUCTIONS

In a large pitcher (at least 1.5L in size), stir the organic sugar into the boiling water until dissolved. Add the fresh squeezed lemon juice and stir again. Taste. This is where you want the balance of sugar and acid to hit just right– before dilution! The mixture should be puckering and saccharine but in the right balance! A lot will depend on the quality of your lemons and their ripeness. If you think the mixture is too sweet, add a little more lemon juice. If it’s too sour, mix equal quantities of sugar and hot water, and add that mixture by the tablespoon until you are happy. Remember that the water will mellow out the intensity but that it is hard to make adjustments once you start diluting.

Dilute the mixture with two-thirds of the cold water and taste again. Add the remaining third to taste. Let the mixture chill in the fridge for at least one hour and serve cold.

If you are in a rush and there is a heat wave, do like me, and pour the lemonade over ice.

Watch Me Make This

KNICKS IN 5!!!

When going anywhere for a weekend away, but especially to an island, I am concerned about food. There’s very little “oh, I’ll just run out and grab another milk.” We give up convenience for peace, quiet and beauty. As we should. But I am a very hungry person who is easily hangry, so the question, “What will we eat?” haunts me. Without enough forethought and advance procurement, I will not be able to enjoy said peace.

Islands tend to be food deserts. A strange thing since many of them used to be farms (Fishers Island included). You’d think, from an aerial view, an island: what a perfect place to have a circular food system. A sustainable loop. Sadly, no. Islands, all over the world, are deeply unsustainable places in the modern day. Everything must be imported, from food to soil to energy.

I am always amazed looking through Fishers Island history books at how far the island has come from its dairying and farming days. (And equally amazed at how much the 1800s hills, full of rocks and devoid of trees, look like rural Ireland). I do not mean to romanticize the 1800s and I do not mean to romanticize farming, which is really fucking hard. (I just finished reading Yesteryear, and I have no interest in going back in time or becoming a tradwife to a farmer). But I look at all that acreage, all that green, and can’t help but wonder why there is so little being grown today. Why fields are valued for almost everything other than growing food. It makes me sad: how there can be so much wealth in all senses of the word, except wealth in our food and food system.

As Darina Allen says, “I would rather have access to good food than a Prada handbag.”

And to be clear, I have never seen a Prada handbag on Fishers Island.

When I first moved to Fishers, all I wanted was a salad. It was the second thing I put on the menu when I opened the cafe (after egg sandwiches).

I felt so deprived of fresh vegetables, especially coming out of deep island winters. Somehow I fell out of the practice of buying and eating lettuce. It seemed to be the first thing I would forgo on my grocery list. I told myself that the greens were tough to transport and they were the first thing to go bad in my fridge. (I tried growing lettuce myself, year after year, and always gave up pretty quickly… Working chefs seldom have time to be farmers too).

But after many years of feeding myself– of doing it badly and doing it well– I can tell you that salad is extremely important.

Darina Allen would never eat a meal without a salad. Neither would Alice Waters. These matriarchs of good food have salad with every meal, and they honor it. They give their salads prime placement in gorgeous wooden or ceramic bowls on literal pedestals! (If you have never seen a salad stand, it might be time to invest).

Their salad are not complicated– with chops and bits. Their salads are just greens– simple, delicious and leafy. All they need is a drizzle of vinaigrette and flaky sea salt.

Some of the happiest meals of my life have been enjoyed at Ballymaloe with Darina and I think the simple salad has a heck of a lot to do with it. It is never a side or an afterthought. It is an integral part of the meal.

This weekend on Fishers was relatively impromptu and I traveled up by train with no time to shop. It also meant little time for me to stress about what we were going to eat! I could only bring what was already in my fridge that would fit in an over-the-shoulder cooler bag: a bottle of champagne, a steak, a box of mustard greens, a head of radicchio, hummus, strawberries, a tupperware of leftover chicken and rice, and fresh squeezed orange juice for the train ride.

Luckily, I was staying with a friend, who was arriving by car. She brought the rest– an impressive haul of farm-fresh eggs, veg, jersey milk, prepared foods, a life-saving chicken pot pie, and most importantly: greens!

We ate them for almost every meal. Eggs on greens for breakfast. Big green salads with lunch and dinner.

“Salad,” was the main request from our friend who joined us one evening. He too was missing greens.

He grilled the steak, I made the salad, and our host poured the champagne (all equally important jobs). I whipped up a vinaigrette absentmindedly, but it was the vinaigrette I always end up making.

Our friend came inside from the grill, saw the bowl full of sunshine, and said, “Ah, house vin.” He used to work at the cafe and had made this recipe many, many times since. “I can’t tell you how much house vin I have made in the last year,” he said.

Like special sauce, “house vin” is not a secret! It is a dressing that let me get away with serving such simple salads and having people go crazy for them.

I almost always have a jar in my fridge. It’s an incentive for my salad addiction, which I can so easily forget. I open the fridge, see the jar, and think, “oh my god, yes, salad.”

I will never take greens for granted again.

House Vinaigrette

I like using apple cider vinegar because it has a mild astringency, a natural sweetness, and it’s easy to find a good quality brand without breaking the bank (Bragg’s is great). You can easily substitute with a nice white wine or red wine vinegar, just taste it first and make you like the flavor.

Likewise, use a dijon mustard you enjoy. I am loyal to Maille. But Edmond Fallot, Roland, Beaufour, and Mustard Pommery are all great brands.

YIELD: shy of 1 cup of vinaigrette

INGREDIENTS

1 garlic clove

1 tablespoon honey (runny, not creamed)

1 tablespoon dijon mustard

1/4 cup apple cider vinegar (or a high quality white wine/ red wine vinegar)

1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil (the best quality you can find)

INSTRUCTIONS

1. In a wide-mouthed medium bowl, microplane the clove of garlic, tapping or scrape the microplane to get all the delicious bits in the bowl. Add the honey and mustard and whisk to combine. Whisk in the vinegar until incorporated. Then slowly drizzle the oil in while whisking. The oil should emulsify with the other ingredients easily.

2. Use what you need to dress your salad and transfer the rest to a jar to store in the fridge for up to two weeks. When you want to use it, take the dressing out of the fridge a few minutes ahead of time so that the oil warms up. And give it a good shake!

Memorial Day weekend is not one of them.

The nights laden with anxiety about the season? Guests vying for ferry reservations? Special requests that are not special? Boxes upon boxes of butter, eggs and bacon, arriving in a massive downpour? Filling fridges to the brim, praying the compressors don’t break? Stern conversations with a malfunctioning label maker and whatever God speaks its language? Waking up at 4am to boil bagels while listening to a self-help podcast because it’s too early for the BBC Newshour? Can’t say I miss those moments.

What I miss is the people. Every person coming through the door. The rapport. The smiles. The way my memory took the wheel. I could look at a face and remember not just a name but an exact order or preference– tomato slices grilled before being added to the sandwich or double! the amount of cocoa powder in a morning mocha latte.

At the local coffee house in Cold Spring just a few weeks ago, I recognized a former customer behind me in line. He only came to the island one week every summer, but I remembered him immediately. His order: two large black coffees. His wife’s order: iced chai latte. His three kids: they’d had a baby girl a few summers back, but the two boys were old enough to wreak good havoc and order hot cocoa, “with marshmallows please!”

I’ll give anything to a child who says please.

My friend’s mother, who rents a house on the island, looks at me in disbelief whenever I recite something about an old customer. It’s an over-the-counter biography: where they live, who they are married to, their kids names, who their kids are dating or breaking up with, how they like their eggs cooked, how much they tip. It’s not that I tried hard to remember these things, but they would stick to my brain better than any of my banking passcodes.

When I miss old customers, its comforting that I cannot turn this part of my brain off. It was part of the magic that made the cafe special, and it’s certainly what I miss most.

The second thing, though? Egg sandwiches, hot off the griddle.

And feeding someone an egg sandwich? Especially when they are super hungover? I’m not sure there is a truer expression of love.

While I rarely make egg sandwiches anymore (and there’s no substitute for a commercial griddle at home), when I am in the mood, I use what I learned at the cafe… the key you’ll learn from any food service operation.. more butter.

So happy Memorial Day. I hope you are enjoying a leisurely breakfast or making breakfast for someone you love.

And godspeed to all those working in seasonal communities. You made it through! June is a joy. The machine is oiled and you can take a deep breath. That is until someone quits or the compressor goes.

Food service, it’s not for the faint of heart.

A Good Egg Sandwich

A good egg sandwich starts with good eggs. If you can avoid no-name supermarket eggs, do. Find a local supplier, someone who lets their birds roam free and feeds them yummy vegetables that make for deep orange yolks.

I try to bring back fresh eggs anytime I am on a trip outside the city. My latest haul came from my friend, Michele. She makes these little morning piles in her house after egg-gathering (pre-wash) and they make me smile.

1. Set up your station

I place all the components I plan to use on my cutting board. Mise en place is important, especially if you are fielding breakfast orders from others. I want the cheese pre-cut and the butter at the ready.

At the minimum, you’ll need:

• good eggs

• room temp butter

• cheese, cut so that it will melt easily

• bread of your choice– an english muffin, Portuguese roll, brioche bun, deli roll, bagel, seeded bread, white bread… whatever you prefer

• salt & pepper

You do not need extra accoutrement to make a good egg sandwich, but I’ll take any chance to gild the lily. So why not add bacon, avocado and micro greens?!

Get out any condiments. I make my own special sauce and always have a jar on hand (recipe below). Perhaps you are more of a hot sauce person? Or you like pickled red onion?

2. Cook off any meats

I set up my kitchen as if I’m setting up two stations at the cafe– the cutting board for prep and assembly and the stove for all the hot stuff.

If you want meats, I recommend cooking them off somewhat in advance and then reheating them as needed for each sandwich. Plus, the smell of bacon or sausage is a great way to awaken any house guests from slumber.

To cook off bacon at home, you can use either the stove or the oven.

Stovetop: Use a heavy-bottomed cast iron skillet. Keep it over medium-low heat and cook the bacon slowly. Most people go too hot, too fast. Nuh-uh, I say. You want the fat from the bacon to render properly, which takes time. Once the fat is rendered, you can pour some of it off and let the bacon finish crisping in the pan.

Oven: This is a great choice if you have a crowd. Preheat the oven to 350F and line a sheet tray with a wire rack. Place the bacon across the wire rack. Bake off until the bacon is crispy and the fat has rendered at the bottom of the sheet pan.

Tip: I like to save bacon fat for: cooking mushrooms, roasted potatoes, and frying. It’s also good for baking off cinnamon rolls. I know that sounds insane, but have you ever had a cinnamon roll heated on a griddle in a bit of bacon fat? It’s to die for.

3. Ready your pan

You need to involve a significant amount of butter. This is why delicious egg sandwiches are not an everyday breakfast.

You can use either a stove-top griddle or a heavy bottomed, cast iron pan.

Maintain a medium-low heat. Melt a generous two or three tablespoons of butter. Remember: a low, consistent heat will make for a gentler sandwich.

4. Griddle your bread

Let your bread/roll of choice soak up a nice amount of butter for 1 to 2 minutes.

5. Cook your egg

Move your hot bread to the sides of the pan. I also add the amount of bacon I want just to keep it warm until assembly time (it’s already fully cooked and crispy).

Make sure the pan is slick with butter but not browning. Add your egg.

Salt & pepper!

Check your bread. Flip it or take it off the heat if you are happy with the color.

Wait patiently for the egg to cook enough on the bottom. Do not flip prematurely!

While I wait, I prep my avocado.

I scoop half, then use a very sharp knife to slice it.

It fans pretty easily and fits well on my brioche bun. Yum.

Now my egg is ready to flip.

I try to be gentle, so I do not break the yolk. Success.

6. Melt the cheese

Right when you flip your egg, have your cheese at the ready. It should be thinly sliced or shredded so that it melts easily.

Here, I am using American cheese here because it is my vice. I know it’s not a real food. I know I am being a food snob about my farm-fresh eggs and then decimating them with chemical crap. I am human and full of contradictions.

If I wasn’t using American cheese, I would use a good sharp cheddar, as we did at the cafe.

(Please pardon my terrible cut-job on this American cheese. I bought it in a block at the Park Slope Food Coop and even with the sharpest knife, it’s impossible to slice.)

Use a lid or heat-proof cover to melt the cheese.

I gently maneuver my griddle press to keep the heat in. In some commercial kitchens, you might spray a little water on the pan to create steam, which helps melt the cheese.

Since the heat is low, you can melt the cheese while maintaining a runny yolk.

If you like a hard yolk, let the egg cook longer.

7. Assembly

While I am waiting on the cheese to melt, I stack everything else.

Bacon on the avocado! Then a drizzle of special sauce!

When the egg is ready, I transfer it to prime placement.

Then I cover it with micro greens and of course, more special sauce.

8. Eat while hot

Don’t wait. The yolk is warm and runny now. Grab a plate and a napkin. Messy is delicious.

Special Sauce

If you’re a sauce person, this recipe is for you. If not, we will never understand each other.

INGREDIENTS

1.5 cups Duke’s mayo

2 tbsp fresh lemon juice

3 tbsp cup Heinz 57 ketchup

3 tbsp Cholula hot sauce

1/4 tsp kosher salt

1/4 tsp freshly cracked black pepper

INSTRUCTIONS

1. In a medium mixing bowl, whisk together all ingredients. Taste for salt and acid. Balance accordingly. If you like more heat, add more Cholula by the tablespoon.

2. Store in a jar or squeeze bottle for up to two weeks.

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Or does your kitchen make cooking– and life– feel like a chore? Is there dead space? Corners that do not bring you joy? Things you never reach for? Would you rather store sweaters in the oven and order take out for dinner?

Kitchen design– the feasibility, efficiency, and utility– is so important. But also, the beauty.

It is the congruence of these things that bring joy to a kitchen. If you have only the first three, your kitchen will lack pleasure. And all kitchens can and should create pleasure.

While there are a few universal pleasure principles and endless lists I could write about “how to build the best kitchen,” I have come to learn that what brings each of us joy is intensely personal. And sentimental.

And almost none of us are building kitchens from scratch with world class architects and unlimited budgets (though I know a few). We’re all dealing with weird spaces we have have inherited from previous tenants and cooks, who left their mark on the stove and drilled too many holes in the wall. If, like me, you are living in a New York rental, you are dealing with tight corners, not enough counter space, and a 40 year old exhaust hood that pretends to work and does nothing at all. Still, there can be joy.

It doesn’t matter what you are working with. What matters is that you get to know the conditions that make you want to cook.

When you know them, you are the best architect for your kitchen.

I spent a lot of time in my late teens and early twenties organizing home kitchens. It was a side hustle in addition to my real jobs, but it was the job that I loved the most. “Where are the ‘I don’t want to go there’ spaces?” was always my first question. Sometimes it was a whole pantry. Sometimes a single spice drawer or an out-of-the-way cupboard. But there was always a place that brought annoyance or dread to the home cook.

Today, I have none of these in my home kitchen. I won’t allow them. I love every single inch of my space– even the high up shelves I cannot reach.

It has taken me years to get here.

This Brooklyn kitchen is the tenth kitchen I have inhabited since I turned twenty.

I invested in all ten, with differing levels of effort and money. But I always invested. Even if I was only staying for three months, I would spent inordinate amounts of time fussing and re-organizing and cleaning the kitchen until it made me want to cook. (On a low budget, I would thrift colorful Pyrex bowls so I had something pretty to look at; with influxes of cash, I would get custom butcher block countertops and learn to cut my own shelves).

It can take years to build a great kitchen. It can take moving house. But it doesn’t have to take years to spark a little kitchen joy.

It’s like dating. You only learn through trial and error. And you need to do a hell of a lot of cooking. A hell of a lot of feeling around. You need to ask: What kind of knife do I prefer? How high do I need the counter to be? Do I bend my knees when I do the dishes or stand on my tippy toes? Are my pots too heavy? Why?

I’ve had hour-long conversations with myself about where to hang my knife sharper, or where to install my wine rack. I’ve enlisted friends to help me think about the order of silverware in my silverware drawer. Sounds mind numbing, but it’s never a waste of time.

Slowly I learn what works and root out what doesn’t. I’ve gotten rid of bad tile, ugly trash cans (always joy-killing), and a lot of plastic crap. I’ve changed habits and routines, and made the flow of the kitchen honor these routines.

Every time I move, I accumulate gorgeous things. Every time I leave, I pair down. After ten years of doing this, I can say, I am in my best kitchen yet.

I used to tell myself, “I should be able to cook anywhere.” I thought the tools and the room shouldn’t matter. I told myself that in the way a good writer should be able to write well anywhere, a good chef should be able to cook well anywhere.

But that has never been the case for me. I need a bit of romance. I need an environment (and excellent produce) that puts me in the mood.

This could be a whole series: how to access kitchen joy. But here’s one thing we can start with– the oldest and most essential of kitchen tools: the wooden spoon.

My Wood Spoons

I’ve always said, “anything made by hand, feels better in hand,” which is especially true for wooden spoons. They are the easiest gateway to kitchen joy!

Take a look at yours. Do you have a few favorites? Where do you keep them? Hidden in a drawer or next to the stove in a crock?

Below are the spoons that speak to me. Most of them are nothing fancy, but I have attachments to all of them, which is arguably the most important thing when reaching for one. A spoon you love will make a meal you love.

The spoon I reach for most.

I have four of these long skinny teak spoons. I saw them at the Beach Plum on Fishers Island during a Christmas sale and immediately needed to have them all. I think I left two behind, thinking I couldn’t be so greedy as to take them all. I should have.

They make me feel like a witch. I love the long handles. They are delicate and stir like a cocktail mixer or “beverage spoon.” They are terrific for tasting. And they are surprisingly resilient. I have not broken one in half. Yet.

The spoon that’s not a spoon.

This is a wooden spatula made by Éamonn O’Sullivan, a brilliant Irish craftsman from County Clare. It was gifted to me by a friend, who I think of every single time I pick it up. I love the slopped edge and the way the color of the wood has aged over time. The spatula is made from ash, a native Irish tree that has had a large dieback due to disease. I typically it to sauté onions, garlic or shallots… and then anything that needs flipping. Once you get used to the quiet of wooden utensils in a pan, it’s hard to go back to metal! The octagonal handle has a feel unlike any other utensil in my kitchen.

The measuring spoon.

When this spoon entered my life, I was not sure what I would use it for. It’s made by a friend’s husband from the little village where I live when I’m in Ireland. I picked it for it’s deep cup, which is hard to achieve when whittling by hand.

Turns out it’s almost a prefect American tablespoon, so I use it measuring– baking soda, vanilla, almond extract. It reminds me of a medicine spoon. Also witchy.

The red sauce spoon.

This is the most typical large wooden spoon in my kitchen and I use it almost exclusively for my six hour red sauce and stirring pasta in water. It was gifted to me by a friend’s son who carved an “L” onto the back. Better than any other monogram.

The tea spoon.

Not a measuring teaspoon! A spoon for tea!

This was given to me by a charming man during an unexpected mini romance in the Irish countryside. He handed it to me and said, “This is for you.” I guess he had been woodcarving. It was pretty albeit a bit rough. I loved seeing the marks on the back– dappled proof of the human hand. I tucked the spoon into the pocket of my old Longchamp bag before we took off for a day of hiking and and totally forgot about it until I returned to New York and was unpacking. Now I use it for tea.

The spoon that hasn’t broken yet.

Somehow.

Okay, this is decidedly not a wooden spoon. It is ceramic– also made by hand. I keep it with the wooden ones because I think they will be nice to it… and see, it hasn’t broken yet.

I was gifted the spoon by an artist friend, who I had been cooking for during a residency. Before leaving, she presented me with this. “A fermenting spoon,” she said. It was deep Covid times, and I was fermenting like a little psycho, making as many jars of kombucha as I could to keep the crazy away.

The spoon made it through a few moves and every time I make kombucha, I use it to stir in the sugar. Kombucha hates metal. And wood (and plastic) tend to absorb flavor. So the ceramic is a great option.

When it clinks the glass, I get a thrill.

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She finally arrived and stuck around… long enough that I can consistently throw on dresses without glancing at the weather report and rely on open-toed shoes to tote me all over New York City. No more scarves!

This is the season for cleaning and rebirth. Purge your closet, try a new face cream, and rediscover your muscles at the gym.

This is also the season for nettles– young, tender, and stinging.

Whether you’re urban or rural, you can get your hands on some. If you’re in the city, try your local farmers market (fellow Brooklynites can buy them tomorrow at the Grand Army Farmers Market– the long stall running up the middle of the park entrance sells them by the bunch). If you’re in the countryside, grab a pair of gloves and clippers and forage the nettles yourself– just make sure you have access to an unsprayed area and get them before they flower. (Top tip: my friend in West Cork sends her sons to do the gathering, steeps the nettles in boiling water, then keeps the concentrate in glass bottles in the fridge. She dilutes the brew with hot water every morning, but it tastes great iced and the cold seems to lessen any iron-y flavor.)

Nettles flush your blood, kidneys, liver, and lymph system, removing accumulated winter toxins (like burgers, martinis, and Christmas cake). If you’ve started spring cleaning your home, it is time to do the same for your body.

There are two recipes in today’s letter– nettle soup and honey semifreddo. Do not miss the later, which is basically cheaters’ ice cream and the best make-head party trick.

I made both dishes for a recent luncheon upstate in support of the Black Farmer Fund, an organization which invests in black farmers, growers, foragers, distributors and food entrepreneurs in the Northeast. I had the pleasure of spending the month prior procuring ingredients from several investees of the fund, and it reminded me that procurement is undoubtedly the most time-consuming and most important part of any meal. I was also reminded that thoughtful sourcing is the ultimate community expander. I ran around the city, procuring honey from a Newark farmer who I met at an Irish pub on 14th Street. He handed me two unmarked jars of the most delicious honey and I felt like I was carrying around sunshine for the rest of the day (and honey and Guinness? A delicious combo). I had pounds and pounds of nutrient dense ground beef shipped to my apartment in Brooklyn (working out the kinks of frozen delivery with the farmer and learning all about how we should and can be consuming more iron-rich organ meats!). I visited the folks at Brooklyn Packers, who amassed veg, dairy and eggs from multiple producers so I could pick up a whole host of stuff at once. I loaded my car with potaoes, cabbages, chickpeas, and leeks… so many leeks. I coordinated with a Hudson Valley forager and once she mentioned nettles, I ambitiously ordered more pounds that any person (or large lunch group) could need. When she pulled up to the venue with multiple boxes of greenery, I thought, “oh boy, my hands are going to love this.” But I was so happy to have them, and hand-delivered! It doesn’t get better than that.

It is one of the deepest pleasures that should be accessible to us all, not exclusive or pretentious or a luxury: to know where our food comes from.

A big thank you to my friends at BFF for connecting me to their producers. It was amazing to hear several of them speak at lunch, where they exemplified that BFF’s support is more than just a financial investment. The real investment is in community. “Community wealth” or “relational wealth.” It’s what I keep coming back to when I think of the modern world and what seems to be missing: the robust social infrastructure that drives us to shop, gather and eat well. We are just as easily siloed from the folks in our food system as we are connected to it. It starts with one touch point. One friend in food. One farmer. One honey guy.

I bookended the lunch with soup and semifreddo, simple foods that let their ingredients shine. And if I’ve learned anything from serving big meals over the years, it’s that people most remember the bookends– the beginnings and ends of a meal.

So here they are. Happy spring.

Nettle Soup

Nettles are best when young, before they flower, in early to mid-spring.

To absorb all the vitamins and minerals in nettles you need to eat them with fat (did you know only vitamins B & C are water soluble?). This recipe uses homemade, rich chicken stock, which is indispensable not just for the fat but the flavor and integrity of the soup. You’ll want to start the stock early in the day as it takes several hours to cook down.

To avoid any stinging while handling the nettles, wear kitchen gloves.

YIELD: 2 liters of soup (about 8 dinner servings)

EQUIPMENT: And immersion blender is best, but you can also use a countertop blender to liquify the soup.

INGREDIENTS

1 1/2 lbs chicken carcasses

3 large, whole leeks (do not discard any of the tops as you’ll use all the typical “discard” for stock)

2 medium onions, quartered

6 cloves garlic, peeled and minced, divided in half

2 tbsp whole black peppercorns

2 tbsp coarse sea salt

2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil

50g butter

3 medium Yukon gold potatoes, peeled and chopped

140g young nettle leaves (no stems), washed

flaky sea salt

freshly ground black pepper

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Start by thoroughly cleaning your leeks. All good soup starts with leeks, and you’ll use the whole vegetable in this recipe (though you can compost the root end as those are too hard to de-grit). Sever the leeks between the white and light green bulb/base and the stalkier green tops. You’ll use the bottom bits in the soup itself and all the other bits will go in the stock. Cut both the bulbs and stalks in half lengthwise and run under cold water until you get the dirt out. This is quite the job as leeks can be gritty at every layer! I often soak them while I put away groceries, just to get a head start. Set the tender white halves aside and add all the other bits, roughly chopped, to a large heavy bottom stock pot.

   

2. Build your chicken sock. In a heavy bottom stock pot with the leek tops, add your chicken carcasses (bones, skin, wings), quartered onions, 3 minced garlic cloves, peppercorns, coarse sea salt, and olive oil. Cover with 2 liters of cold water. Heat over a medium flame until the water is hot to touch, but not boiling. Reduce to a low heat, and cook under a simmer, low and slow, for 4–6 hours. This is the “sit and forget about it” stage, where all fat and flavor is rendered into the stock. You don’t even need to stir. Let the stock become stock. The liquid level will reduce slightly and you’ll want a yield of 1 to 1 1/2 liters of stock. Taste for salt after 4 hours. The stock should hold its own flavor and have taken on color. If it tastes too bland or looks too pale, continuing cooking, checking it every 30 minutes and adding salt as needed. Strain through a fine sieve and set the aside.

   

3. Chop the tender white leek bottoms into 1-inch half moons. You do not need perfect chopping skills as this soup will be blended at the end.

4. In a large pot, over medium heat, add the chopped leeks, butter, and chopped potatoes. Sweat the leeks and potatoes over medium-to-low heat until they start to becoming soft, about 18–22 minutes, stirring frequently to make sure the potatoes do not sick. (If you want to use a cartouche here, it helps with the sweating). Add the remaining 3 cloves of minced garlic and let the garlic sweat for 1 minute. Add all of the chicken stock, including any fatty bits at the top that may have solidified, and let simmer until the potatoes are soft all the way through (you should be able to smoosh with the back of a wooden spoon).

5. Next add the clean nettles. Stir them in and take the pot off the heat. Grind in fresh black pepper, a few twists. Cover with a lid and let the nettles wilt for 3–5 minutes. Using an immersion blend the soup directly in the pot, until it is lovely and green (remember it should be off the heat and no longer cooking). Taste for salt and season while still warm.

   

6. You can ladle the soup into serving dishes and serve immediately or keep it on the stove for an hour or so, then gently reheat for service. A drizzle of heavy cream on top can’t hurt. The soup stores well in the fridge for 4–5 days.

   

Honey Semifreddo

adapted from Nigella Lawson

I suppose you can make this semifreddo at any point of the year, but for me it is a celebration of spring, when the hens start laying again, when the cows are out on grass for the first time, and when the honey is at its most delicate and lightest in color.

I got turned on to Nigella’s recipe by my friend Ophelia, who runs Inish Beg, a beautiful country estate on the coast of West Cork. Ophelia hosts many guests and dinner parties so she prefers a dessert that can be made ahead. The first time I made this with her, I was astounded. It’s easier than ice cream, wows guests, and has no refined sugar! Plus it looks sexy as a slab on a plate, no need for embellishment or fussy presentation.

I like serving a slice drizzled with more honey and a pinch of sea salt. Toasted and chopped nuts are fun if you want a crunch.

YIELD: 1 large 1 1/2 lb loaf tin (about 12 servings)

EQUIPMENT: Handheld electric mixer (and maybe an extension cord). Or a whisk and very strong, resilient arms.

INGREDIENTS

2 large eggs

8 egg yolks

200g honey (plus more for serving)

600 mL heavy cream

flaky sea salt

INSTRUCTIONS

1. First, prep your loaf tin, lining it with one large, continuous piece of clingfilm. I use a buttered brush to help the clingfilm stick to the pan, but as long as you push the film to the corners and make sure it goes all the way up the sides, you are good. Try to straighten out any big wrinkles as the semifreddo will conform to them as it freezers.

2. Add 1-inch of water to a small/ medium pot of water, and bring the water to a simmer over the stove. Find a large heatproof mixing bowl that can fit over the pot to create a double boiler, ensuring the bottom of the bowl will not come into contact with the water. In this bowl, combine the eggs and honey, then place the bowl over the lightly simmering water.

3. Using an electric hand mixer, beat the eggs and honey over the heat, until pale and thick. (If you do not have an electrical outlet near your hob, you’ll need an extension cord, fun!). This can take longer than you think, sometimes 10–12 mins. Keep at it and be aware of splatter. Stand in awe as eggs and honey are transformed into something totally new. Set the bowl aside and clean your beaters.

4. In another large, dry mixing bowl, add your cream. Using an electric hand mixer, beat the heavy cream until thick. You are looking for thicker than softly whipped but not as far gone as to be lumpy.

5. Using a rubber spatula, slowly fold the pale egg mixture into the whipped cream. You want this mixture to be fully incorporated, but try now to overwork it. It should remain light and airy.

   

6. Using a ladle, transfer the custard to your lined loaf tin. It should just fill the tin. Then use another piece of clingfilm to cover the top lightly. Move the tin immediately to a very cold freezer on a stable shelf. Let the semifreddo freeze at least 6 hours or overnight.

   

   

7. To serve, remove the tin from the freezer and gently run the sides under a trickle of hot water. This will help to release the semifreddo. Overturn the loaf onto a cutting board or large serving dish. Tap gently and pull the clingfilm slightly. The loaf should come right out. Remove the clingfilm and immediately start slicing slabs for your guests. Serve each slice with a drizzle of honey and pinch of flaky sea salt. Any extra semifreddo can be wrapped back in clingfilm and stored in the freezer for up to 1 month.

   

   

Thank you to the whole BFF team, especially Olivia, Ola and Alexis. Thank you to the investees: Marcellis Counts, Dom Crockett, Krista Speroni, Steph Wiley, the entire BK Packers crew, and all the farmers and hands that contributed to this food! Thank you Kathleen Finlay for your generosity and for opening up your home and to Sophie Sagan-Gutherz, who unwinds all event stress. Finally to the dream kitchen team–Kim Wong & Kathryn Arffa– your support made it easy. I love being in community with all of you.

“I thought I didn’t have the attention span to read anymore, but I can read this.” –Wonhee Lee

This year I gave up sex for lent. I was happy to see Easter come and go.

I did not give it up because it felt hard– like giving up sugar, or Guinness, or tuna melts. It felt easy, like saying I wasn’t going to eat a peach in the middle of winter. It wasn’t the season. A good peach, supple and dripping and the color of the sunset halfway in its set would be a rare find. No matter how much I was craving it, manifesting it, scrolling through my phone, looking at the bounty of stone fruit, hot cobblers, tanned bodies, and the blue oceans of August, I knew I needed to focus on something else.

I was in line at my local butcher shop– a landmark Polish establishment with many hanging meats. As I inched my way forward in the queue, I overheard the guy ahead of me talking about donuts. Donuts? My ears perked up. I had always come for the kielbasa, smoked ham, pork, pickles, pierogis, pretty much anything savory, but never donuts.

“They’re in the window,” he said to me.

Plain sight. I had never noticed.

“It’s a big day in Poland,” he continued, “They make them for the holiday.”

I am, of course, both a bad Catholic and a bad Protestant, so I had no idea it was Fat Tuesday (or Pancake Tuesday as they call it in Ireland). This was the reason for the surplus in the window– raspberry, chocolate cream, rose, plum. The butcher’s wife told us that she’d already sold a few hundred. I looked at the price. $2.25 per donut. I told her to raise it. Then I ordered three.

The conversation turned to what we were giving up: sugar, alcohol, social media.

I thought it would give everyone a laugh if I said, “sex,” so I did.

It was a copout for a period of repentance that I rarely observe. And in the current dating landscape, not a hard ask.

The butcher’s wife laughed. The man did not. He said something about being married, paid the bill, and walked out the door. He’d been so warm and blue-eyed until I had mentioned sex.

But the sex I was having in this city? It was not leaving me hungry for more.

I passed this advertisement on Atlantic Avenue yesterday. Pretty much sums it up:

I feel we need to start a campaign: The Women of New York Are Not Satisfied.

Everywhere I turn, I am affirmed that I am not the only one feeling this way. I am faced with a plethora of media all focused on the fact that we have lost the art of sex, dating, and romance. Every book I open, every podcast, every YouTube video.

On the most recent Sunday Session of Call Her Daddy titled, “Make Dating Fun Again,” Alex Cooper tells her audience, a group of young women called the Daddy Gang, that everyone has lost the plot. Men and women are at an all time low of knowing how to approach each other. They lack basic social skills we once took for granted, like talking to someone in line at the coffee shop– someone you are not trying to bang.

We have let our social muscle wither.

Remember when people used to strike up conversations– on the bus, in the bar– with strangers? My friend’s dad was recently visiting from Cork and remarked on this. He chats everywhere with everyone all around NYC (pure Irish). With both a gorgeous and hard-to-discern accent, he gets away with it. On this trip, he commiserated with an older Puerto Rican man on the bus about how people do not do talk on the bus anymore. And it’s true, people look at you like you have five heads if you start talking to them in public. People are siloed, on their phones, uncomfortable to communicate.

Cooper begs the Daddy Gang to push themselves to recoup these skills.

As I listen, I can’t help thinking, Is this where we are? People needing to be reminded of our innate traits and tendencies which are the very thing that make us human? People needing to be reminded that dating is supposed to be fun?

I love dating. I love dating when the dates are good. I love dating when the dates are bad. But even I am fatigued.

On a good date, there is a kind man feeding me dim sum at 2pm on a Saturday, paying the bill, knowing exactly where to pivot afterward for the nearest, coldest beer. He is good at holding my lower back while walking down Canal Street and kissing me for an extended period of time at the subway entrance. This impresses me. Kissing on the street is delightful but something I have always felt uncoordinated and too proud to do as a native New Yorker. I am ingrained to get. out. of. the. fucking. way. He is a transplant. It works. He quickly follows up with a dinner reservation for next week.

On a bad date, the guy cries. We are having our second drink. It’s a set-up. A vibe-check. We barely text before meeting, but within half an hour, we have covered our biggest ambitions and what to matters us in life and love. We know yourselves well and are good at asking questions. But it feels more like an interview than a date. The longer we sit, the more he seems into it, the less I do, and the swifter his moves become. He starts touching my knee and talking about his mother (?!), a mix of two affections that are not mixing for me. When he asks if he can kiss me, I say, “no,” and he looks perplexed and sad. I feel the need to be polite but clear. I explain that I am just not feeling it. He’s lovely, we are aligned in many ways on paper, but there’s a but. Then his eyes well. I go from feeling bad to more of an um, what-the-fuck. I worry that maybe I was too abrasive. I know that dating often involves someone getting hurt– either I hurt their heart or they hurt mine. But we are only two drinks in. We do not know each other. I wanted to be honest to his face rather than say it in a shitty text later in the week. When a tear comes down his face, I feel terrible. Crapshoot, I tell myself. But I have learned a important lesson. One about expectation. This man came in looking for a wife. Not a drink. He was premature, placing a lot of attachments and assumptions onto someone he did not yet know. I had been on the other side of this date countless times. To see it from this side was clarifying. I took a longer walk home than necessary, pulled some cookie dough out of the freezer, and voicenoted a few girlfriends. Crapshoot, they agreed.

“Sex is better abroad,” my friend Anna says. Wherever she goes– Korea, London, Marseilles– she meets someone.

“I always find a man. They cross my path. I have to do very little. Where are these men in New York?”

Sometimes Anna and I joke that we have to get on a plane to get laid. And while it’s never the goal of our trips, it’s a nice outcome.

We agree that our brains are less on guard when we’re away. Travel provides the ultimate wall-dropper. We are more confident, less regimented, less attached to lists. And so much of the attraction we feel has to do with our own openness. Maybe it’s not that the men are better in Europe, but we’re a better, more unburdened version of ourselves.

As I wait for the butcher’s wife to bag up my donuts, I realize I am hungrier for the donuts than the sex. An apt time to pause.

“New York Magazine just declared that dating in New York has never been worse,” my new friend Eric, announced over cocktails and a pasty at Dean’s last Friday.

My 40 days were almost up.

He was seated to my right. We formed the corner of the bar (I love a corner). And to my left was my friend Caroline, my forever date on this stretch of 6th Avenue. It was one of those nascent spring days. Blue skies, real sun, cherry blossoms, and the first daffodils. There was no better way to soak it in than a 5pm chance walk-in at a new New York restaurant.

Eric was talking with the barman about the wine list at another downtown spot, where he had been a customer and the barman had been a barman. I could tell Eric was an avid patron of reputable restaurants. I could tell he lived for eating, talking, and drinking. Like my friend’s dad from Cork, he was a good conversationalist. I could also tell that he was polite, that as much as he was overhearing my conversation with Caroline, he was not going to encroach. So I made the first move. Someone had to do it. And then the bar was open. Like a living room.

I learned that Eric was born in Cuba and raised on the Upper West Side. A mid-50s Jewish guy, financial advisor. He was not married but happily committed to a WASP (“the Revolutionary War kind”), who was not with him tonight because she’d gone to a five hour (!) opera. He recounted to Caroline and I the glory days of Soho and Tribeca, everything downtown. “Dead now.” he said. He didn’t want to say it, such a cliché, but it was true.

He mentioned the merger happening in the booze business. Brown Forman (Jack Daniels) was being acquired by Pernod Ricard (Absolut, Jameson, etc). Big deal. He saw this as a sign or symptom of the death. “Young people, they don’t drink. They go to the gym,” he said.

He was trying to sort out if the New York Magazine headline was true. He shook his head in pity. An Alex Cooper conversation 2.0.

I told him that I was dating in two countries. “In Ireland, its farmers and tradesmen. In New York a lot of lawyers. Men in suits. It’s like whiplash.”

“You’re a catch,” he said, “I’m not worried about you.”

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I spent some of the 40 days of lent in Ireland. But on this trip, instead of having sex, I signed myself up for a few days of silence at a buddhist retreat center on a remote and rocky peninsula. No phone, no computer. Just a book, the full moon and the sea. It was the most turned on I’ve been in months. (The buddhists, they’re on to something.)

Upon returning, I faced a tricky test. A friend’s wedding.

When I agreed to no sex, I had not realized that the wedding was in the no-sex window. Coming off the buddhist retreat, flying home on the plane, I was ready to let my agreement out the window.

Weddings are a great conduit to romance. The intimacy starts way before you see the guy you might want to make out with. The ceremony is complete emotional foreplay. It opens the heart and makes it mushy.

Plus, the bride had said there were a fair amount of singles invited (a rarity these days). She was sprinkling seeds.

“What’s the vibe you’re looking for?” she texted me a few days before the big day.

“Something fun for a short time?” I said, adding, “Has a brain and preferably no trust fund.”

She thought of someone and then retracted it, “He’s cute, but he may not be sophisticated enough for you.”

Then she mentioned a guy from our New York City youth. This wedding was full of men I went to camp with or men who were middle or high-school adjacent. She relieved me quickly, typing, “Kidding.” When you grow up in this city, those men are off limits.

“You know there is a time and place for sophistication,” I said, “and then there’s a time and place for something hot and dumb.”

“HA HA,” she texted back, “but that actually gives me an idea.”

I had never met a bride who took the time to be a matchmaker before her own wedding. It was totally unnecessary, and badass and thoughtful.

The wedding came. I chose my outfit about three hours before the ceremony and took the subway uptown with friends. We took pictures on our film cameras, cried at the vows, and filled our pockets with matchbooks mementos and table cards.

In the end, I never looked for her “idea.” I was too busy dancing. And you know who I ended up talking to at the end of the night? A New York City guy, the type I normally swear off. It was unexpected and nice. He was a good conversationalist. We talked about movies. We ogled at the actors and celebrity guests leaving the wedding.

The afterparty was at the Chelsea Hotel. We all needed cabs downtown. I headed to the lobby, a slew of dresses and suits from bright orange satin to brown corduroy to cream milling about. I spotted my friends. They had already called a car. I found the movie man and offered him a ride.

He told me he was not coming to the hotel.

At the Chelsea, I took my heels off quickly. They were over five inches tall. I rubbed my feet, sore from the dance floor. I ordered a bloody burger and fries. The bun was perfect. Sesame. There was a pickle.

I shared the fries with the groom’s best friend, who was sitting across from me. “I saw you talking to [movie man] earlier,” he said, “You think there’s something there?”

“Yeah it was nice,” I answered, “but I asked him to come to the hotel and he said no, so I don’t think so?”

“Hmm. He’s just shy, I think,” said the friend, “Maybe another time?”

“Well,” I said, “When the woman you’ve been hitting it off with invites you to get in a cab and go downtown, you should really say, ‘yes.’ It’s kind of an in the moment, one-night-only kind of offer… You know, there’s momentum.”

“Yeah,” the friend said and took a long pause, “Men are dumb sometimes.”

I went to grab another fry. I wanted mayo. We only had ketchup and mustard. I flagged down the server. I ordered the mayo. Several sides, please".

The friend looked at me. “You’re a catch,” he said.

I laughed. I stuffed the last bit of burger into my mouth. I rubbed my feet again, starting to dream about something very close and very far away: home. Wiping off my mascara and red lipstick. Taking off all this jewelry. Removing my nail polish. I thought about a man, a specific man, ripping off my tights. I never wear tights. I thought about him running my swollen feet under a cold tap until they were less swollen. I thought about putting my clean feet in my clean bed next to this man. That was enough for me.

I was smiling. “Yes I am,” I said and starting fiddling for my heels to go home.

I must also note the delicious fried chicken interlude before the concert… at the bar at The Modern. How have I been sleeping on this bar? Each bite of food was superb, there was a perfect amount of dill in almost every dish we ordered, and it was the only bar in midtown not packed with rowdy Paddy’s day drinkers (me last year, but not this year Satan!).

Today, I am sharing my go-to granola recipe, which I promised you about 6 months ago… That in a nutshell is how things are going. Slow as molasses. One day I will share what I have been writing the past few months, but it needs longer to bake.

For now: granola.

Granola is simply a suggestion of ratios. The nuts, the mix-ins, the fats, the sugars are all changeable as long as you follow the ratios. Some folks like coconut oil, coconut sugar, maple sugar… even butter… Some like almonds and hazelnuts. I prefer olive oil, maple syrup, and I often opt for brazil nuts because I am scarred from cracking a tooth on an overcooked hazelnut from a bag of granola I bought at a Park Slope bakery that will remain unnamed. Soft nuts only, please.

You need not weigh ingredients for this recipe– it is made for eyeballing, loose cup-measuring, ruffling in the cupboard, and using what you have.

I never make the same granola twice. Even when I had the cafe, we would change up the ingredients based on what was available… and their cost. Yes, other than the oats, the ingredients are expensive and you want the best (good olive oil, good maple syrup, good cherries). For that reason, granola is best made at home, where you won’t skimp on the good stuff like a commercial business trying to make the margins make sense. (Ahem, to the “cherry granola” I bought a few weeks ago that had five dried cherries in the whole bag).

This recipe is dedicated to Suzy, Jane, and Lincoln, who kept the cafe going in granola purchases alone, and who all emailed me for the recipe when I decided it was time to go. I still have a note from Jane saved to my desktop computer titled, “if you ever forget your talent,” which I look back at now and again if I am having a tough day.

Nothing lasts forever, you can still make this granola, and maybe Jane is psychic.

Happy oat baking to you all,

Lily

Granola

This recipe holds for 3 months, when stored in airtight jars in a cool, dry cupboard. It makes for a lovely gift, so I always have small jars at the ready for housewarmings, new moms, etc.

Be sure you start with raw (not pre-roasted or salted) nuts.

YIELD: About 2 quarts

EQUIPMENT: Two half sheet trays, each with a silicone mat liner (yes, it’s me again, telling you to invest in silicone baking mats!); good storage jars

INGREDIENTS

4 cups rolled oats

1 cup almonds (or brazil nuts, roughly chopped)

1 cup walnuts

1/2 cup pepitas

2/3 cup maple syrup

1/2 cup olive oil

1/2 tsp flaky sea salt

MIX-INS

2/3 cup dried cherries

2/3 cup golden raisins

2/3 cup dried apricots, chopped

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Preheat the oven to 300F.

2. Mix the oats, nuts, pepitas, maple syrup, olive oil and salt, in a large bowl, until glistening.

   

3. Spread the granola mixture onto 2 silpat-lined sheet trays.

   

4. Bake for 30–38 minutes. Every 10 minutes, pull the trays from the oven and use a spatula to move the granola around the tray. This ensures evening baking. Rotate the trays– top to bottom, front to back– as you go. Watch the granola toward the last 8 mins, as it can go from golden to a little too dark rather quickly.

5. Once golden, remove each tray from the oven and let cool completely. It will finish crisping and drying as it cools.

   

6. Transfer the cooled granola to a large, clean bowl. Add the dried cherries, golden raisins, and chopped dried apricots. Mix well, making sure the dried cherries are pulled apart from each other if they are clumping.

   

   

7. Transfer the granola into jars (or double Ziplock bags if you are living in a humid place!). Enjoy over tart yogurt or with creamline milk.

   

Needless to say I did not get my dating post out yesterday. I was too busy running around Brooklyn with my dad, procuring heart-shaped baguettes, $100 worth of scallops, and several bottles of wine (none of which were for me; they were for his Valentine’s dinner… I opted for dumplings and a much needed catch-up with my oldest friend). The updates will have to wait a little longer.

For those of you who have been replying to my Instagram stories asking, “When are we going to get your TV show?” you are in luck.

My friend Leah and I are cooking up a little something in my Brooklyn kitchen later this week and we would love to hear from you.

We want your thoughts on food & love. We want your best dating stories. Your worst dating stories. We want to know if someone has ever cried in front of you on a first blind date. We want to know what you make for breakfast after a good sleepover. We want to know what you refuse to cook or if you cook for your dates at all?

We want a list of the things men have said to you.

Dating advertisements you have loved. Solicitations that have made you laugh out loud.

We want to know what you are observing, whether you are married and watching from the sidelines or out at the bar five nights a week.

We want to know what is on your list. The dealbreakers. The lessons you have learned. The rules you abide by. And the rules you have broken.

What matters when looking for love and intimacy?

Send us your thoughts by:

• replying directly to this newsletter

• emailing me at lilystarbuck@gmail.com

• leaving me a voicenote on Whatsapp (+353 83 806 0735, if you can’t decipher the handwriting above)

• If you wish to remain anonymous, just say so :) If we have a desire to share your story, Leah or I will write you back!

Look forward to hearing from you.

Every recipe comes from somewhere or someone… else. Recipes cannot be copyrighted, but they can certainly be sold.

There is no dish for which this sentiment is more true than the chocolate chip cookie– or, my preference, the chocolate chunk cookie. The cookie that defines childhood, comfort, and, lately in NYC, snow days. The cookie whose recipe many of you on Fishers will not stop asking after. The cookie I have been making, on repeat, a new batch every week since late December, and then eating, still warm, after a long cross-country ski in Prospect Park, contemplating how long it will take my cheeks to defrost while I revel in chocolate smudges on my lips and fingertips.

When I want something even more decadent, I bake off two cookies and smoosh soft vanilla ice cream between them, then eat this by candlelight, standing over my kitchen island, exclaiming oh-my-god, while grabbing a napkin from the far drawer, making a perfect mess.

It is better than sex. Just me, my appetite and an ice cream sandwich.

My friend Liz came over to taste the latest batch and the first thing out of her mouth was, “Oh my god, Lily, you do need to join the gym.”

We had been discussing hibernation and routines or lack thereof. Mine: work, ski, shovel, make cookies, eat cookies, and never leave the house again. I mean… it was January… were we supposed to do anything else?

Liz’s eyes were electrified as she ate to the very last bite. “Dangerous,” she said.

The recipe below is a rendition of an old Bon Appetit recipe mixed with advice from a few online blogs I sorted through years ago when I was trying to recreate the OG chocolate chunk cookie from City Bakery (RIP). That cookie was my favorite thing in New York City and I’ve been chasing it ever since the bakery closed. It had hand-cut chocolate of the 70%+ variety– the sharpness of the chocolate perfectly complimenting the caramel-like dough. There was flaky sea salt sprinkled on top to ensure you were ready for a second bite right away. Salty, sweet, salty, sweet, bitter. The cookies were the size of your face but thin– flattened, apparently, from banging the tray against the counter the second it came out of the oven, releasing air pockets in the cookie dough and leaving behind a signature crackled top. They were to-die-for when warm, but still held up and room-temp, hours later.

When I opened my own cafe, I could have cared less about showcasing my own recipes. Why would I strive for something original when the perfect cookie already existed? The execution was what made a recipe unique to me, anyway. If someone was coming to me for a cookie, all that mattered was that it was a very good, highly craveable cookie, worth paying a pretty penny for.

So what makes a recipe yours? What makes it proprietary? How can someone own a recipe? And what happens after they sell it to you?

This was the topic of conversation, over mildly cold bloody marys and piping hot onion soup gratinée on a January afternoon at the bar at Balthazar pre-snow. The pastry team from Ballymaloe House was in town, and we were reconvening (or recovering) from the previous evening: dinner-but-mostly-dessert at Zimmi’s in the West Village (yum) and then a few champagne-of-beers at Singers in Bed-Stuy, where I almost fainted when 40 handsome gays filed into the bar at once, chatty and hot off a riveting discussion from their evening bookclub (double yum). I had been feeling testosterone-deprived and the sight of them recalled an equally intense day last spring, when I stumbled upon the entire Irish rugby team downing pints and singing in a circle in a pub in the middle of Dublin city. Around so many arms that could pin me down, how was I to contain myself? (Dating updates in tomorrow’s Valentine’s letter, if I ever get this recipe out!).

I have seen the jealousy, the desire for credit, the, “hey that’s mine” from many chefs in the industry. I have felt it myself. I have seen opinions shift as social media changes the nature of recipe content and its creation. (Did you catch the whole NYTimes-cookie-gate when everyone was freaking out about a cookie that looked like mortadella? I mean…)

When cooking is so tied to your identity… when you associate a certain recipe or even food group with who you are, it is hard when someone is coming up your rear playing copycat. But it happens all the time, intentionally or not.

When I was dealing with my own copycat, years ago, it became a lesson in tuning everything and everyone else out. It forced me to re-discover why I love to cook.

For me, the whole point of cooking is enjoyment and pleasure. And second to that, learning and sharing. I did not start cooking so that I could own something. I started cooking because I was hungry. And I kept cooking because I love feeding people (and because I am still hungry).

I have learned two thing important things in my food career: 1) The person who pioneers something is rarely the same person who capitalizes on it, and 2) You don’t own shit.

Almost all my recipes come from somewhere else– inspired by people who have fed and taught me over the years.

My granola is a version of Liz Gallant’s granola (shout-out Sophie’s mom!). My salad dressing is a version of the shallot-laced vinaigrette from Superfine (a bar/restaurant in Dumbo, where I learned to play pool growing up, and where the owner Tanya was a mother to the neighborhood). Every loaf cafe I make is a version of Melissa Clark’s, “French Yogurt Cake with Cherries and Cardamom” from her book Dinner in French… and even if I’m making banana bread, I follow the ratios of that loaf cake to a tee and wing the rest (I know it’s a weirdly specific recipe to use as a base for all others, but that’s just what works for me).

I love the provenance of a recipe. I love having the voice of the person who passed it down to me in my head. Yet I have no doubt that the person whose voice is in my head got it from somewhere or someone else.

“Here’s the thing about copycats,” my grandmother said when I was struggling, “They’re like fake Louis Vuitton. They can try. They can capitalize. They can even do well. But at the end of the day, they never get it quite right.”

She lingered on the “never” like someone singing a this-little-piggy rhyme.

It took time to learn, but, of course, she was right.

I came to realize: 1) anyone so intent on copying someone else is setting themselves up for an unfulfilling life, and 2) nobody can be you.

I learned that my energy was better spent plowing my own course, baking my cookies, and feeding my people. The rest was background noise.

So I find this whole credit-where-credit-is-due conversation both important and futile.

On one hand, credit is always due. And don’t we want to share the provenance? (I tend not to trust people who hide where things come from. And I’m nosy…)

On the other hand, we don’t cook for credit. We cook for the feeling of standing over the kitchen island: just us, our appetite and an ice cream sandwich.

I am sure Nora Ephron would agree.

Chocolate Chunk Cookies

I would encourage you to keep a minimum of 10 frozen cookie dough balls in your freezer at all times. It is the security deposit we all need. Is it snowing out? Cookies. Did a friend call in for tea? Cookies. Are you going somewhere and can’t show up empty handed? Trying to apologize? Just got home from a mediocre date? Cookies, cookies, cookies.

YIELD: 30 reasonable-sized cookies

EQUIPMENT: A cookie scoop (it’s worth investing in a good one for your home– I use a #12 scoop when I want cookies as big as my face, otherwise a #40 scoop is more respectable); a silicone baking mat for easy lift.

INGREDIENTS

227g salted butter (Kerrygold)

215g dark brown sugar (this brand makes the textural difference)

75g organic cane sugar

2 large eggs

1 tbsp vanilla extract

250g all-purpose flour

1 tsp baking soda

326g 70% dark chocolate bars (I prefer this brand) – if you are loyal to chips, you can use 326g dark chocolate chips (I recommend these)

Flaky sea salt, for sprinkling

VARIATION: Chocolate Chunk Chestnut Cookies

Sub the 250g of all-purpose flour with 70g of coarse-ground chestnut flour + 180g all-purpose flour. You can order chestnut flour here (thank you to Clare de Boer for getting me hooked).

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Weigh the brown sugar and cane sugar in a large, heat-proof mixing bowl.

2. Meanwhile, melt the butter in a small saucepan over medium heat until it begins to foam, when the milk solids separate from the butterfat, about 5 to 7 minutes. As the solids turn golden brown, remove the pan from the heat, and pour the hot butter over the sugar in the heat-proof bowl. Whisk to incorporate.

   

   

3. Next, whisk the eggs and vanilla into the sugar mixture until it becomes viscous and glossy. I am always amazed how the egg helps to bind the sugar and butter to create a completely new texture– it feels like magic!

   

   

4. Return the bowl to the scale and weigh the flour (or a mix of flours). Sift the baking soda on top of the flour. Fold the dry into the wet, using a rubber spatula, getting out any lumps. No streaks of flour should remain.

   

   

5. Chop the chocolate bars into chunks and shards. You are looking for diverse chunks– some larger than bite-size, others smaller.

   

   

6. Fold the chocolate chunks into the dough, including the small shards and chocolate dust that accumulated on your cutting board. (If opting for chocolate chips, add them directly to the dough).

   

   

7. Let the dough rest for 30 min to 1 hour at room temperature until firmed up. You want the dough to hold its shape for scooping and it will be too warm to scoop right away. If your kitchen is very hot, consider moving the dough to a cooler location, or letting the dough sit in the fridge for about 15 mins.

8. Once the dough has firmed up, use a cookie scoop to portion the dough onto a silicone mat-lined sheet tray. (The cookies may seem hard to scoop with so many chocolate chunks, but have no fear– they will bake off beautifully). You can line the balls close together, as you are not baking them right away. Sprinkle each ball with a pinch of flaky sea salt.

   

   

9. Move the tray to the freezer for 30 mins to let the dough firm up.

10. At this point, you can move to step 11 or you can transfer the balls into a ziplock bag and store them in the freezer for future use.

11. To bake off the cookies, preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Line a sheet tray with parchment paper or a silicone mat, and place your desired number of cookies on the sheet, spreading them at least 2.5 inches apart. Bake at 350 for 9–10 minutes, removing the cookies from the oven when the outside is crisping but the inside is still slightly gooey. Tap/gently bang the tray against a heat proof counter (you can also tap on the ground) once or twice, to remove some of the air in the cookies. This will help flatten/crinkle them.

12. Allow the cookies cool on the tray for at least 10 mins before removing them with a metal spatula. That time is key to them setting. Enjoy the cookies while still warm.

13. For ice cream sandwiches, I recommend baking off your cookies at least an hour in advance. Underbake them slightly (just up to the 9 min mark), then let them set/cool fully. Ten mins before you want to assemble your sandwiches, remove your tub of vanilla ice cream from the freezer. Preheat the oven to 300, and let the cookies warm up for just 1 to 2 mins in the oven (you want the chocolate to be a bit melty). When the ice cream is scoopable and the cookies are still warm, but firm enough to handle, start your assembly. Scoop vanilla ice cream onto a bottom cookie (making an ice cream disc about 1 inch thick by smooshing the soft ice cream into shape). Top with the second cookie. Eat them right away.

    

Chocolate is heart-filling and energy-giving. It is good for grief. For love. For your central nervous system.

It is also good for that certain time of the month, when you are prone to crying at anything.

As much as I love a store-bought chocolate bar, there is something about making my own bars at home that is infinitely more rewarding.

Swim bars– as I call them– are my treat for getting into the freezing cold sea in the middle of winter.

They were first inspired by my friend and sea-swimming companion, Emily Jane Allen, on a brutally windy day in 2018. Emily and I were driving to her local strand in East Cork and she passed me a tiffin of chocolate squares across the dashboard.

“I found the recipe online,” she said, “They’re supposed to be uplifting.”

I can’t remember the exact make-up, but this was the gist: you took a brownie tin, lined it with parchment, melted dark chocolate with some coconut oil, and poured layers of melted chocolate, then nut butter, added some bits (maybe dates, nuts, coconut flakes), and then more chocolate. Emily was sick of eating sweets that made her feel awful. And these were the opposite. Divine.

Since that day, these bars have become a post (and sometimes pre) swim ritual.

You can make your bars as a reward for anything. My friend’s kid calls them “rowing bars” and brings them to his local rowing club as a post-practice treat. They are equally as delicious after a hike, a yoga class, or a sauna.

And they are the definition of semi-homemade. Anyone can make them! All you need are well-sourced ingredients and a tolerance for mess.

Quality is key. Use the best chocolate, the freshest nuts, and the creamiest nut butter you can find. Experiment with what combinations you like best. Every batch will be different.

Through all my permutations, I have come to realize that I prefer a thinner bar– something more akin to bark. I also prefer a heavy nut-to-chocolate ratio (nuts make this a health snack, right?). I’ve changed up my technique over the years– forgoing a deep tin for simply drizzling thin layers of chocolate on a silicone mat.

My friends in West Cork keep telling me I should sell the bars. But, for me, selling them would miss the point. And the ingredients are so expensive it would make zero economic sense to make them en masse.

They are for sharing. They will only ever be a gift. Not for sale but for joy.

Make your own following the guidelines below.

Note– The photos in this recipe look better in the Substack app or on a desktop computer. And this post is “too long for email,” so you’ll have to view it there anyway!

Swim Bars

YIELD: Two slabs about 8” x 11” each; about 30 bars total

EQUIPMENT: Two half sheet trays, each with a silicone mat liner; rubber spatula; parchment paper; a good storage tin

INGREDIENTS

250g brazil nuts

100g macadamia nuts, or a combination of nuts of your choosing– I love hazelnuts and pistachios. Almonds, on the other hand, can be a bit boring/dry. I avoid buying pre-roasted nuts as they tend to become rancid rather quickly. Whatever combination you choose, make sure you toast the nuts well, skin them if necessary, and cut them down to desirable eating size

250g smooth-ground peanut butter, or another nut butter of your choosing. Hazelnut butter and almond butter work very well. Pistachio butter or pistachio cream (the Nutella-like stuff you find at specialty food shops) is extra luxe. Whatever you choose, make sure it is high-quality and delicious

800g 85% dark chocolate, free from stabilizers– I prefer Lindt, which is easily accessible in both USA & EU

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Preheat the oven to 375F.

2. Start by toasting each type of nut separately, in batches, directly on an unlined sheet tray. Don’t forget to set a timer– nuts burn quickly! The brazil nuts will take anywhere from 4–8 minutes. Macadamias are faster at 3–5 minutes. After the first 3 minutes, agitate the tray every minute. Remove the nuts from the oven when they are a deep golden color. Transfer the nuts to a cutting board to fully cool.

   

3. Meanwhile, decant your nut butter into a medium-size bowl. Most natural butters will have a layer of oil sitting at the top of the jar– do not discard this! Mix the butter vigorously with a wooden spoon until fully incorporated and smooth.

   

4. Once the nuts have cooled, cut any large nuts into flakes or smaller bites (for the sake of your teeth). Take care to do this with a very sharp knife. I keep the macadamias whole as they are quite soft. The brazil nuts are best thinly sliced. If I were using hazelnuts, I would slice those too.

   

5. Next, melt your chocolate. Break down the chocolate bars into chunks and place them in a double boiler over medium heat on the stove. Breaking up the chocolate is a great task for little helpers, but beware a few pieces will go missing when you are not looking :)

   

   Note– I melt the chocolate directly in a heavy-bottomed pot on the cool ring of the AGA. If you have the pleasure of having an AGA, you can do this too. The chocolate doesn’t burn… as long as you keep stirring. If you don’t have an AGA, double boiler it is.

   

   

6. Once the chocolate is fully melted, you are ready to assemble your bars. Line two sheet trays with silicone mats.

   

7. Divide half of the melted chocolate between the two silicone mats (reserve the remainder on the stove, keeping warm, for later).

   

8. Use a silicone spatula to spread the chocolate across each mat, stopping just shy of the edge. The chocolate should cover the mat without being too thin or too thick.

   

9. Divide the toasted nuts across the two chocolate slabs. Don’t worry about pressing the nuts in– just let them fall. The goal is to cover the chocolate evenly.

   

   

10. Distribute the nut butter between both slabs. You can eyeball this– half on one slab, half on the other. There is no perfect system for distributing nut butter. I do my best to make small dollops and then gently swirl them on top of the chocolate. It’s going to be messy. Don’t forget to lick your fingers.

    

11. Now you are ready to drizzle the remaining melted chocolate to complete the bars. The best way to do this is to drizzle the chocolate slowly using a rubber spatula. This is time consuming, but drizzling ensures you have enough chocolate to cover every last bit (as opposed to turning out the pot and hoping for the best). It’s a good time to meditate on life while being mesmerized by glossy chocolate. If you see any bald patches, maneuver some chocolate over them with the spatula.

    

12. Once both slabs are covered, move the trays to a cool part of the house to let the chocolate solidify (uncovered). You can do this in the fridge, though you risk the chocolate oxidizing slightly. I often use the fridge because it hastens the cooling and makes the bars easier to cut; plus it ensures no critters get into them. Let the bars solidify for at least 4 hours or overnight.

13. Once the bars are set, you will have to work quickly to cut them as the chocolate melts easily and is delicate. Work with one tray at a time. Remove the entire slab from the silicone mat and transfer it to a cutting board lined with parchment paper (the parchment paper will make it easier to clean the counter later). Note: you do not want to cut the bars on a silicone mat because a knife will cut through the silicone.

14. Using a sharp knife, cut each slab into 15 square bars (5x3). Not all of the bars will cut evenly and you may get some funny shards. That is okay– broken bits are still delicious.

    

15. Working quickly, transfer the bars to a storage box or tin, placing parchment paper between each layer so the bars do not sit directly on top of each other.

16. Store the box/tin in the fridge and remove your desired number of bars for each sea swim, hike, sauna, or friend-outing.

    

I have been working between these three time zones for the past week and to say my head is wrecked is an understatement. Zooms at 6pm Irish time when it is pitch dark outside and all I want is a creamy pint or to play with my friend’s kids, who sit by my computer and go, “I mean what even is a meeting? And why would you do a job with so many of them?”

I suppose I am stretching myself a smidge more than I can handle, but a smidge more than I can handle is how I like things. Full.

From today, the days start getting longer. It is the winter solstice. The shortest day and the longest night of the year. It is also my 30th birthday.

This time last year, I was sitting at the kitchen table on my friend’s farm in West Cork, surrounded by the kids who just want to play, blowing out the candles on a delicious heart-shaped lemon cake. We cut slices of the cake while the adults at the table reminisced on where they were at age 29.

The grandparents had all been married. One had already had two kids. Another had just met the love of her life.

“Not so relatable,” I said. To which everyone assured me I was so young, lucky to be in the position I was in.

I looked across the table to my friend Olivia, just one year my senior, knowing that the most timely advice comes from someone who is only a couple of steps ahead.

“Well,” Olivia said, “It’s a great age to quit your job and move across an ocean.” She smiled. Olivia had spent 2024 leaving a corporate job in New York to move to West Cork without a definitive plan but with some gut feelings and good whims. She was gearing up for a cross-country ski trip through Northern Italy in the new year, and I was jealous.

People often lament how unfortunate it must be to have a birthday near Christmas. As if I won’t get enough attention or be overshadowed by the holiday season.

But I love having my birthday this time of year. Everything is festive. Everything is bright (even if the sun sets at fucking 4:30pm). Everyone is on the precipice of a new year, weighing what they are determined for.

I haven’t spent my birthday or Christmas at home for many years now. People also find this unfortunate or rather strange.

But the nice thing about being 30 is that I know better than ever what makes me happy and I have more hutzpah than ever to ensure that happiness.

I am writing this, standing against the AGA at my friend’s home in Dublin, warm, content, and well-rested. Instead of doing one big thing to celebrate this year, I did a lot of little things. I recommend it. Here is my list:

How To Turn 30

1. Get a facial. You’re old now. Book into the place your friend-with-the-beautiful-skin recommended: Rescue Spa. Request a Biologique Recherche lifting facial, which costs an arm and a leg but you deserve it. Talk to the Ukranian facialist about the farm she grew up on and how she can’t understand how everyone’s goal is to live in New York City, where there are no farms and little fresh food. All she wants is to be back on a farm. Tell her you feel the same. When you like the smell of the cream she is putting on your face, she will say, “It’s made of potato.” Think about how much your Irish friends would make fun of you for paying to put potato on your face. Vow to put more potato on your face in your 31st year.

2. Apply to the solstice festival at Newgrange for the fifth year in a row. Don’t get in, again.

3. Strip down to a tank top at the LCD Soundsystem residency in Queens. Sweat so much. Scream. Let the ex-rugby player behind you protect you from the pushers. Proclaim that you only go to the gym of James Murphy now.

   

4. Get your first speeding ticket on Hamilton Avenue in Brooklyn.

5. Hear from three separate friends that they are all 11 weeks pregnant and all due in July.

6. Celebrate the other Sagittarius in your life.

   

7. Have your therapist tell you, you are attracted to what is unavailable. Tell her it’s because you like a challenge.

8. Put on a red lip.

9. Get a bikini wax, eat an everything bagel with vegetable cream cheese, chase it with a fresh-squeezed orange juice, buy glitter, pack more bagels in your big ass suitcase, and board a flight to Dublin.

   

10. Drink a lukewarm beer in a roasting hot terminal. The 7th terminal of JFK? More like the 7th circle of Dante’s Inferno. Get mad because it used to be fun to get drunk at the airport bar and now the airport bar is manned by no one, like not a one, and instead you have to order from a QR code, and the men from Belfast sitting next to you aren’t as sexy as you want them to be, and it’s snowing on the tarmac, and your flight has been 2.5 hours delayed, and your feet are soaking with sweat. Is this what Corona means when they say find your beach?

    

11. Drink 10 pints at the Kneecap concert at the 3Arena in Dublin. Get your Brits out.

    

12. Announce to your friend Vickey that you must go to Hacienda after the show. Ride the Luas. Vickey says Hacienda is probably closed. Ring the bell anyway. Shane answers. Order another pint. Play pool with a guy who asks Vickey if you’re on a date then proceeds to tell you he “doesn’t date but has a lot of sex.”

    

13. Vomit up said pints. Make a mental note to buy Vickey a new pillow.

14. Take a hot shower and let your hair dry the entire train ride to Cork City.

15. Get to the farm with all the kids and immediately get dragged to a three hour Christmas panto at the local school.

16. Go to the shop and buy 80 euros worth of 85% chocolate. Wait in the longer line so that see Kathleen can greet you with a “And how are you girleen?” at the checkout.

17. Melt the chocolate. Make swim bars.

    

    

18. Throw your body into the sea. Wait for a swell to climb out because the ocean is rough!

    

19. Visit the man now living in the flat you lived in when you were 21– a flat that has barely changed, with the same books on the wall and the same smells in the linens. You’ve been flirting a little over text. Talk about everything, but don’t touch. Let him drive you home.

20. Look up at the stars and see so many more than you could ever see in New York City.

21. Text the man about maybe touching next week when you are back on the farm.

22. See three rainbows in two days.

    

23. Get soaked at the morning swim. Eat a piece of Gene’s Christmas Cake.

    

24. Take your Mini Cooper on a joyride.

25. Buy a langerload of your favorite Irish cheese at the Skibbereen Farmers Market. Eat an entire chunk of Killeen while stuck in traffic, listening to “Teenage Dirtbag.”

    

26. Stop at Dunnes to buy Vickey a new pillow.

27. Drive 100mph on the M8 Motorway from Cork to Dublin in the lashing rain while blasting “Int’l Players Anthem” by UGK in the Mini, which you bought in August and might now sell to Olivia, who told-you-so that it was too soon to buy the damn car.

28. Remind yourself that girl math is paying 12,000 euros for a car to drive it 3 times and saying, “Worth it.”

29. Facetime your family when you stop for petrol.

30. Go out in Dublin, again. Get sidetracked by the Munster–Osprey rugby match.

    

31. Drink pints with some old Ballymaloe mates, but less pints than last time. Irish goodbye.

32. Wake up. Eat more cheese.

33. Go for a long walk along the River Dodder.

34. Drink champagne.

    

35. Realize you’ve been looking at the computer for most of the day. Hear the kids in your head chastising you and realize you’ve got to get off this thing.

36. Smile.

I just finished being full from Thanksgiving and have the extra bit of chin to prove it. She comes ever November and leaves around April, and that’s just fine by me.

I need the room. The extra skin, extra blankets, extra buffers in the schedule, extra time for sleep, extra patience for family. My body becomes the place to hold all the energies that at other times of year dissipate more quickly. I start moving half as fast with twice as much on my calendar (anyone else invited to four holiday parties tonight?). It’s the tryptophan in the turkey, the ability to be somewhere drinking wine every night, and the lack of sunlight. Some mornings, I look at my Google Calendar and want to hide under my covers, cradle my hot water bottle, ring my aunt in Paris, and just do nothing. (My aunt invented hiding for the holidays, a smart move… but more on that in another letter).

Today, I am sharing a recipe that is good for doing nothing and going nowhere: my sister’s Mac & Cheese. This dish will keep you full til springtime. It will stick to you, commit to you… just as good things should.

At dinner several nights ago, I reconnected with an old flame. It was freezing out and we met at Lei (a fantastically tiny wine bar in Chinatown that is becoming a new go-to). I arrived in red slippers with no socks and he greeted me with a glass of Côtes du Rhône. It did the job of warming me up while we waited outside for our table.

Once indoors, we had to make the ever important decision: by the glass or by the bottle. Our server was eyeing us (probably sizing us up for a big ticket), and wondering, Did we like what we were already having? Neither of us was in the mood to make more choices, and we both love Grenache. We ordered a bottle.

“Let me get you some fresh glasses,” the server emphasized. I thought he was making a subtle comment about the lipstick smudges around the rim of my glass. I always feel embarrassed by the smudges because I know just how annoying they are to clean– even commercial dishwashers can’t do the job. But I also love a red lip.

He returned and placed two new glasses on the table, his fresh water pearl necklace peeking through his open collar shirt. He poured me a splash. I reached for a taste. “Ooo,” I said. The stems were so thin, so fragile. It felt like holding a single strand of spaghetti. “Zalto?” I asked referring to the Austrian-made glasses that started this trend years ago (and pricey for any restaurant to have). “Bobo,” the server answered, “If you’ve been to any new cocktail bar in the last year, this is the glassmaker everyone is using.” (I looked them up later; they’re made in Sweden).

“So those were outside glasses, and these are inside glasses?” I asked, laughing.

“These,” he motioned to the new arrivals as he poured, “these are commitment glasses.”

Commitment has a lot to do with pleasure in everything, but especially in food. When you fully commit, whether to the whole bottle, the whole stick of butter… or to going to one party instead of four (as I am doing tonight), you are bound for a better time.

Today’s recipe is a perfect example of that.

Mac & cheese. My sister and I are often disappointed by it. Most home-baked versions are so… dry. And most seem to lose any real flavor the second they cool.

Even in our own kitchen, the recipes from some of our favorite cookbook writers– made with the nuttiest, sharpest, meltiest cheeses– all seem to let us down.

My sister has her own recipe pretty honed in, but it was only after a recent freezer clear-out that we happened upon a game-changing ingredient: cream cheese.

From the freezer, we pulled out a big bag of hand-grated cheddar. Perfect for mac & cheese, my sister thought. She went ahead and used it with her recipe.

But it wasn’t just a bag of cheddar. I’d forgotten... It it was my special grilled cheese mix, leftover from a catering event. My “recipe” for this mix came from my years catering at the cafe (every cocktail party host wanted mini grilled cheese). I would grate a bunch of expensive cheddar cheese from Jasper Hill and then cut it with cream cheese and a little garlic powder. This made for a more cost-effective filling. It also solved the frustration of losing so many good shreds of cheese to the floor while prepping hundreds of sandwiches. With the slightest addition of cream cheese (I never add a ton), the shredded cheese would clump together and make it easy to stack between the bread. It also held up better out of the oven. (What I was doing was basically the method for pimento cheese, and if you haven’t had a pimento grilled cheese, text me for a lunch date at my house in January).

At first bite of my sister’s dish, I was in heaven. This was the mac & cheese I had been looking for my entire life. I even liked it at room-temp.

“You can’t half-ass mac & cheese,” Danielle said to me recently. “Any time I try to make it healthy or try to refine the recipe, it’s just sad. I have to remember that. It’s not a health food. Health is not the point. If I’m going to make it, I just have to commit.”

So if you just recovered from gluttony, and you’re ready to dive in again, this one’s for you:

Commitment Mac & Cheese

From Isabella Kelley

YIELD: One 9 x 9 x 2.5” square casserole dish or one 10” cake pan (2.5” deep)

Nota Bene– You can choose whatever size vessel(s) you’d like, depending on your audience. I like making one cake tin for a bigger group (and baking a mini dish on the side for lunch), but the recipe also works well in individual ramekins/dishes for dinner parties.

INGREDIENTS

1 lb dry pasta, any shape of your choice (I like fusilli or something with crevices)

2 tbsp extra virgin olive oil, divided

6 tbsp unsalted butter, plus more for buttering the dish

1/3 cup all-purpose flour

3 cups whole milk

1 cup heavy cream

4 cups box-grated sharp cheddar cheese (the sharp yellow cheddar from Cabot is a good move here; nothing fancy)

1/2 cup full-fat cream cheese, at room temp

2 tsp kosher salt, plus more for the pasta water

1 tsp freshly cracked black pepper

1 tsp garlic powder

1 tsp onion powder

2 tsp paprika, divided

1 tbsp dijon mustard

2 cups box-grated Gruyère

1 cup panko breadcrumbs

1/2 cup microplane-grated parmesan

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Preheat the oven to 350F.

2. Butter the bottom and sides of a 9 x 9 x 2.5” square casserole dish or 10” cake pan (2.5” deep). (Or whatever vessels you choose to use).

3. In a large pot of salted, boiling water, cook your pasta until 2 mins shy of al dente (follow the timing for whichever shape/brand you choose). Strain the pasta, toss with 1 tbsp olive oil, and set aside to cool on a sheet tray.

4. Re-purpose your large pot to make the roux. Over medium heat, melt the butter. Add the flour and cook the roux, whisking constantly until it starts to turn a light golden color, about 5–8 mins. Stream in the milk and cream. Continue whisking and cooking over medium heat until the mixture thickens (it should generously coat the back of a wooden spoon). Reduce the heat to low and mix in the cream cheese, then 2 cups of grated cheddar, along with the salt, pepper, garlic powder, onion powder, 1 tsp paprika, and dijon. Whisk until smooth. Turn off the heat and mix in the remaining grated cheddar. Fold in the cooled pasta.

5. Immediately transfer the gooey, cheesy pasta to your buttered dish(es). Make sure to scrape the bottom of the pot (no cheese left behind). Sprinkle the tops of your dish(es) evenly with the Gruyère.

6. In a medium bowl, mix together the panko, grated parmesan, remaining 1 tsp paprika, and remaining 1 tbspn olive oil. Sprinkle this mixture over the Gruyère, leaving no surface uncovered.

7. Place your baking dish(es) on a sheet tray (this will ensure even baking and help capture any mess). Bake in the oven for 35–40 mins, until the top is toasted and golden, and you can see hot cheese starting bubble at the side.

8. Remove and let cool for at least 20 mins.

9. Serve warm, sprinkled with flaky sea salt, if needed. This dish is great alone but even better served with short ribs and a bottle of Côtes du Rhône.

No letter last week because I was upstate for an annual retreat that always pivots my life, and this year was no different.

I gathered with thirty-nine other powerhouses working in sustainability at Glynwood, a center for regional food and farming just outside of Cold Spring, NY. It was a weekend full of reflection and rest before an arduous week with hurdles and ruptures. (Anyone else coming down from that? And now we have to face Thanksgiving family stuff?)

Last summer, a chef-friend in West Cork kept talking about hive mind, referring to the collective intelligence her kitchen team develops when working together. I knew what she meant because I had marveled at this concept in kitchens, in cheesemaking, in families… but I never had a word for it.

“When the hive mind is buzzing,” she said, “we barely talk to each other. We just know.”

This is what happens by the end of retreat.

We leave with a deeper understanding of who we are and what we’re working on. We thread commonalities. We resource each other. This translates into a lot of laughter, tears, and dancing, in unanticipated order. At last year’s retreat, I got up to ask for help with an exciting project I was embarking on and, unbeknownst to me, burst into tears instead. “I live on an island called Fishers Island and I need to leave,” I said. It was both a surprise and a long time coming.

Isn’t it amazing how truthful you can be when surrounded by the right people? In the right place? This is the theme of today’s letter.

“Find your tribe,” my friend Ciara constantly reiterates, and Ciara is always on the money.

Literally. When I made my first chunk of change in life, I asked her what the point was (I was pretty financially illiterate at the time). “The point of having money is having freedom of choice,” she said. I scrawled this across my check binder and it’s been there ever since.

I have always loved money. I love getting paid and doing a money dance. I love buying things. More so, I love buying things made by hardworking people who also love money. I also love being a yes person, and having money allows me to say yes more.

One of my favorite customers came into the cafe a few years back, and while I was packing up his bagels with a big grin on my face, he goes, “I see you. You talk about community and all this stuff, but you’re a secret capitalist.” He laughed. I laughed. (To be clear, I was grinning because he’s a funny guy and packaging things brings me so much joy.) “Secret?!” I said. I didn’t feel like I was hiding behind some façade.

Another customer, a year later—doing what customers do best—gave me some unsolicited advice. “You can’t do capitalism and community,” he said. We were having a conversation about the structure of the island—an island with few small businesses and a plethora of non-profits (I was running a small business; he was working for a non-profit). I knew we both wanted to live in a similar kind of community, but we were approaching it from two different angles. Still, it took everything in me not to respond, “But do you know who’s funding your paycheck?” (A capitalist.)

You can’t do capitalism and community: this sentiment pops into my head on a weekly basis. I think about it every time I walk down the main street, whether that’s 7th Ave in Park Slope or Main Street in Schull (the tiny village I love in West Cork). Why are these two things so ardently opposed? Can we not have both?

The most successful communities I’ve witnessed are communities with many family-owned small businesses. They are communities where people own their homes and the buildings that house their businesses. They are places where community members have equity and, therefore, are driven to keep reinvesting in the place and people they call home. They exist in some form for capitalism, I’m just not sure which form.

Growing up, New York City restaurants were my community. They were where my mother raised me– both inside their walls and with the people who made them tick. I have always seen restaurants as the fastest way to build community and I still do.

But successful communities, and the conditions they need to exist, are eroding. We see hospitality changing rapidly and brick & mortar family businesses getting harder and harder to run.

Coupled with that is the whole replacement-of-humans thing. This summer, in Schull, “the shop” (the term everyone uses for the one grocery store in the village) was renovated to have almost all automated checkouts. In general, I love advancement, but this made me concerned. First, I worried about what was going to happen to my favorite checkout person, Kathleen (who brings so much good energy and joy to my shopping experience), and second, I worried about the farmers. The economy around Schull is predominantly agricultural, and farming can be a very lonely profession. Many farmers live in relative isolation and rely on the shop for their daily outing. Their interaction with the checkout person may be their only human interaction of the day.

I watched people react to the new system. The year-round, old-school customers protested, choosing to wait in a now longer line for the last two remaining human checkouts, only one of them manned. But many customers, especially the summer tourists, went right to the new tills, enjoying a human-free shop.

I do not want to be catastrophic, but the whole scenario gave me pause. In the last twenty or so years, the big change was “the shop” becoming this singular place to get all your needs. No longer did you have to go to multiple specialty stores: the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. Efficient, yes, but at what cost? (The cost of our regional food system). And here we are again—another big shift, removing more human interaction from our daily necessities. Automated tills seem a small thing, but I can see them having a pretty big impact on the fabric of just one village. They say that within two generations, the gorgeous way that Irish people communicate may also be a thing of the past. That banter—the way people chat about their day—is a keystone of West Cork community, and it pains me to hear that eroding too.

I have spent hours trying to figure out why certain places and communities make me so happy and why others require so much… effort. The short answer is: it’s the people.

“We need more of our people,” someone said to me once about the island. And I’m still unpacking that, but I get the sentiment.

Finding your people—your tribe—matters. If you go for too long without them, life gets hard and lonely.

I met some amazing people on Fishers, many of whom are my kind of people, but I realized I had a critical mass problem– many of these people dipped in and out or only came to the island for weeks in the summer. I was missing the daily interactions with a larger community that I used to take for granted: the checkout lady at the grocery, the barista at the coffee shop, the anonymous faces sitting across from me on the New York City subway.

Even if I didn’t know exactly who or where my tribe was, I knew this wasn’t it.

When I couldn’t face another off-season alone on a rock in the middle of the sea, I went upstate.

I wanted to learn to love cooking again. So I devised an insane schedule, where I slept on Fishers three nights a week, drove across the CT–NY border two days a week, and cooked at a friend’s restaurant in Pine Plains the other four nights. I moved around a lot, taking beds in the homes of generous friends all over the Hudson Valley. No two weeks were ever the same, and some people looked at me like I had my head screwed on backwards, but it was the change I needed. Maybe my tribe was upstate.

The incredible team at Stissing House took me in, trained me on the line, and fed me the best staff meals of my life in a gorgeous building from 1782 that always had multiple wood fires roaring. I didn’t love living upstate (no ocean, no horizon line, 30-minute drives just to get a latte), but I loved the restaurant. It was so cozy, teeming with life, and there were always nibbles of Jake’s Gouda or coconut cake within arm’s reach. I had found a hive mind and it felt like magic.

The world started opening. I met many people, including another Kathleen. We met at Stissing and she invited me to come tour the farm where she worked down in Cold Spring. This was Glynwood. I had never heard of the place and I remember rolling up in my minivan one morning before work, feeling totally out of my depth on a New England farm. I think I was anticipating it feeling like the farm back in Ireland. It did not.

Kathleen showed me around, answering various versions of the question, “So what goes on here?” and then brought me inside for tea. We didn’t really know each other, but something about her seemed to understand something inside me– something I did not yet understand.

She welcomed me into a community called Pleiades. The name Pleiades refers to the cluster of stars also known as the Seven Sisters. You can see them in the night sky this time of year. And while seven stars are visible to the naked eye, there are apparently thousands more.

Fast forward several years, and both Pleiades and Glynwood—which used to elicit that what’s going on here feeling—now feel like a second home. This is the power of intense and intuitive generosity, which is what makes community community.

At the end of this year’s retreat, a fellow sister turned to me and asked, “Do you think men do this?”

“What? Meet in large circles to discuss their work, emotions, and the future of sustainability?”

“Absolutely not,” we all agreed.

We were running around the Glynwood Farm Store, filling our bags with beeswax candles, Crimson Crisps, jars of kimchi, preserves, and more before heading home to various corners of the States.

There were a few men behind us in line, picking up their weekly farm share, looking a little confused.

“Where did you all come from?” one guy asked. It would seem most weeks the farm store isn’t packed with forty women having ten conversations at once while juggling a few pounds of mental and physical potatoes.

“The energy is great,” he followed up, smiling.

We were buzzing and hungry.

“Wouldn’t it be great if we all lived in the same small town and ran into each other like this at the grocery store?” my friend Kathryn said.

I knew exactly what she meant. That’s kind of how Fishers felt in the summer. It was so fun.

After many goodbyes, I loaded my farm haul into my van and waltzed right back into the main house. I had decided to stay behind an extra night and was ready to light a fire.

The house was dead quiet, save a light clattering from the kitchen dish pit down the hall and the murmur of two handymen trying to fix an elevator upstairs. Always a reminder that when one party ends, another’s work begins.

I lit the fire and started thinking about how much I love movement. How when anything gets too still, I need at least a flame flickering.

I thought about how I don’t actually love money, but what money allows—the freedom to choose.

The freedom to put gas in the car. To have a car. To say, “I’m going to go find my tribe.”

After the extra night, I drove farther north to visit Stissing. The restaurant was hosting its inaugural pie feast, a competition of thirty-plus home bakers with a panel of judges you could only dream of getting in the same room (Martha Stewart… Samin Nosrat…). It had been a while since I was within the walls and I was happy to be back.

The pies were very good. But seeing old faces was better. The bartenders I had worked across from. The front-of-house folks and facilitators of all the feasting. I was most excited to see a young woman I had worked with, who started as a dishwasher and was now garde-manger. I remember working together when she first came on the line. We were both a little green and overwhelmed—she was plating pastries and I was shucking oysters. “You can do it,” we used to say to each other. I wasn’t sure if she’d remember me, but the second I came around the corner, her face lit up, and we had the best reunion.

It was a good reminder that sometimes you are building a tribe without knowing it. And sometimes the rewards from that building don’t come until years later.

“If you want to have five kids and build a big life, you need to find your community and start working toward that,” Ciara told me years ago. I was in my mid-twenties and wildly impatient. “These things don’t happen overnight.”

She was right. Turns out, you can’t rush it.

I used to spend hours driving the Taconic, always in a hurry. It’s the motorway between upstate and New York City, and I’ve always hated it (mostly for the terrifying on/off ramps). I’d think, Oh my god, all this up and down is going to kill me. It felt like wasted time.

Now I’m not so sure. Maybe things are less linear than I want them to be. Maybe if you follow that voice telling you to get in the car… if you trust your intuition… eventually, you end up exactly where you’re supposed to.

Maybe we’re all driving in circles.

I’ve been enjoying reading your reviews of this infantile newsletter.

Your newsletters are so beautifully written, they give me wanderlust. I’d definitely read a whole book by you. – Danielle

You are such a beautiful writer, and obviously such a beautiful baker. At first I thought, I don’t want the first recipe to be muffins. How dumb. – Lucy

A lot of typos. – My dad

I hope to forever have the pleasure of this mixed bag.

No recipe today.

Instead, as I learned with muffins: give the people what they want.

Last Friday, I was catering a kid’s Halloween party in Park Slope, and a mom, who happens to be a reader-of-the-letter, came up, wide-eyed, “You left us hanging.”

“The farmer,” she specified, referring to the man I mentioned in my first post. She wanted to know if we were still dating.

“Oh no,” I said, “We’re not. I was supposed to be moving back to Ireland last week, actually, but my visa got rejected, so now I’m… here.”

Here, futzing with trays of mini grilled cheeses and massive pots of hot pumpkin soup.

Here, keeping busy. Because a busy body keeps the mind at bay. (You know what I did the last time my Irish visa got rejected, don’t you? Started a cafe.)

Here, in a house literally a stone’s throw from the building I grew up in, which was the last place I expected to be.

“So, you’re looking to be set up,” she smiled.

I laughed.

It’s the question I am getting most these days.

I learned in business that money doesn’t fall from trees. Neither do men. You have to go after what you want.

This week alone, I’ve been on four dates (two firsts, one second, and one third). This may sound wild to my friends back in West Cork, but this is the advice I am getting. A mentor told me that the day she met her now husband, she had 3 dates: a coffee, an early drink, and a late dinner. The drink won.

This is how the type-A women of New York date.

It’s like a muscle you have to exercise. I love it.

So I date. Offline. Online. I make lists, but they’re getting shorter as time goes on and that’s a good thing. (Plus, I can now cross road frontage off the list since that doesn’t really apply in NYC).

I mostly meet men in bars (Balthazar after dinner, Irish pubs anytime) and at friends’ parties (house parties, book parties, baby parties). Meeting through friends is slower and better and richer than the apps, but I am on the apps too. I put very little effort into them now, which reaps more reward. Right now, the universe is sending me a lot of Jewish lawyers. I’m into it.

(This was not always the case with the apps, by the way. If you haven’t read the Hinge hack, let the article be a wake-up call on dating algorithms and paywalls. Start treating dating apps like tools, not replacements for human connection. I could care less how much anyone texts you on there. Or who the algorithm is showing you/ gatekeeping from you. Matching with a guy on a dating app is like someone offering to lend you their drill. You still need to pick it up, and you need to know how to use it. Just like those shelves you keep dreaming about putting on your wall, possibility is not sexy. When it comes to dating, until I see pilot holes, nothing exists.)

I count myself lucky that the people most invested in my love life are 60-year-old women and a lot of moms. (They also make the best wingwomen.)

“We just want to hear about having sex in the camper van with the farmer,” one of these friends and readers-of-the-letter exclaimed at dinner the other night. “We’re here to live vicariously through you!”

Dating the farmer went totally pear-shaped. After “the best night of his life” (his words, not mine) in said camper van, he ghosted me. Kissed me goodbye on a gorgeous, secluded pier and drove off to work. He’d asked me what my plans were that week and talked about kayaking, so I was confused when I never heard from him. We’d been having a great time. He seemed really into me. There were no red flags except for that fact that he drank at least two whole pints of milk with dinner (but he’s a dairy farmer, so I let that slide). It spurred a lot of chat with my Irish male friends to try and understand what happened.

“Sometimes, after the guy sleeps with you, his brain just does a 180,” one said.

Another, “If a guy sleeps with you and you don’t hear from him the next day, he’s a total asshole.” (Correct.)

It’s a crapshoot, ladies. No matter what side of the Atlantic you are on.

The farmer and I eventually picked things up again, but let the record show that the first red flag should always be abided.

We have a modern dating problem.

I loved what Reese Witherspoon had to say about this in a recent interview on the Armchair Expert podcast with Dax Shepard (see min 29.20).

“I always say to people dating,” she started, “You’re looking for a 10, but are you a 10? Are we really judging people on an appropriate spectrum?”

“You want someone who’s extremely funny, completely self-made, not arrogant but self-confident. He’s got to be funny. He’s got to be smart. He’s got to have a job. He’s got to like his mom. He’s got to have a great family.”

“He’s got to be masculine but emotional,” the co-host Monica chimes in. “It’s a lot.”

“You’re also going to need to meet a human,” says Reese. “And he’s going to have to deal with your quirks and wrinkles.”

So many of my single friends say it’s impossible to meet someone. I hear the words dry spell way too often from people who are confident, smart, hot women.

Reese’s theory as to why we have a dating decline? “It all has to do with rom-coms and sitcoms,” she says.

“The past 10 or ever 15 years, there’s been a decline in the making of rom coms or legitimate big movie stars being in rom coms […] and the television shows that you watched when you were 11, 12, and 13 that made you imagine and visualize dating skills.”

“Rom coms are where we actually learned social dynamics. From Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan.”

I agree that we have certainly lost a lot of social skills, what with the phone, social media, and the rapidly changing power (and financial) dynamics between women and men.

It’s true, men aren’t going up to women and asking them out anymore. My friend Caroline and I were sitting at the bar at Grace’s the other night and a handsome Irish man ordered a pint behind us. We kept making eye contact but then he proceeded to spend the rest of the night looking at his phone (!) in the corner. Was he just being shy? In another universe, 15 years ago, I’m pretty sure he would have struck up conversation with us.

And yes, women need to be asking men out too. When given the opportunity, I will always say something. I will always leave my number. On napkins, receipts, or even better, matchboxes. I’d say it works 20% of the time. It’s so much fun.

I think the only way to fix the dating problem is to keep going out. Keep being cringe. Find a 60-year-old wingwoman and tell her who at the bar you think is hot. And maybe we need to bring back personal ads?

So yes, if that mom is still reading, you can set me up.

And if you need a push to leave the house tonight, here are some shots from very good nights on the town– a town teeming with single people!

Have a pint. Leave a comment.

Til next week, Lily.

Another friend of mine, who I swim with back in Ireland, always says, “We’re not made of sugar.” I think of her this morning– of her encouragement to get out there without hesitation for weather! “It builds character,” she says.

Today, however, I give in to sugar. It’s still dark at 7:30am, so I turn on every low light in the apartment, wait for the moka pot to sputter, and pull some muffin batter from the fridge.

Housekeeping: If you subscribed but are not getting emails straight to your inbox, you need to update your settings. It would seem that even if you subscribed on Substack, your setting for email could be turned off.

If you ended up here by accident, you can unsubscribe here.

I asked which recipe you wanted to see this week (muffins or granola) and it was a tie! Easy to break, though, as a dear friend gave birth last weekend and she has been requesting the muffin recipe for a while. Testing the recipe doubled as a way to drop off food at her door (two birds, one stone), and I hope she approves…

With weather like this, don’t we all need something warm and crumby?

Muffins have always been something I associate with brutally dark mornings.

We have a long history, which began, at 6 years old, when my family and I would visit my step-grandma at her bed & breakfast in Bar Harbor, ME. Bunny (what a great name for a grandma) would wake up at 5am every morning, get the first of many pots of Folgers on, and then proceed to mix batter for muffins. I was such a hungry child that I would rise around 5:30am and run downstairs to help her. I’m not sure how much help a delirious 6 year old was, but I seemed to prove myself over the years. Second favorite to eating the muffins, was delivering them to each guest’s door in the quaintest baskets you’ve ever seen. Perhaps this is when I realized how much I love feeding people. Or really, how much people love muffins.

Bunny is a smart lady and would mise all her ingredients the night before. The bowl of dry ingredients left on the counter. The fat (was it butter or crisco or oil?) measured. The wet ingredients (milk and orange juice), ready to go in the fridge. And all her mix-ins (raspberries, Maine blueberries) stacked to the gills in the freezer. She had the tins lined and a whisk, spatula, and muffin scooper at the ready.

Years later, when I started my own cafe, I acquired the same discipline. Up at the crack of dawn, down to the kitchen, ovens on, muffin tins lined.

I held out on muffins for 2 or 3 years, trying to only serve croissants and loaf cakes at first, until I realized, people just want muffins. Kids want muffins. Grandmas want muffins. Dads are, surprisingly, really into muffins… Why had I held out for so long?

Waking up to bake was like a military operation. And I can’t say I miss those early mornings. But they were a necessity, and so I convinced myself, “Oh yes, I love being up at 5am. I love that quiet before the rest of the world rises.”

When people ask me about being a baker, I just think of the pitch black behind the kitchen windows. The florescent lighting, too bright. The scooping of batter, the opening of eyeballs, and that humming… from the florescent lights and from my brain. I’d put on the BBC or a “How I Built This” podcast to tune it out.

I liked getting good at it, though. The routine and the efficiency. There is a lot to be said for “eating the frog” or “getting the worm” or whatever words people use to justify mornings.

When I learned that you can freeze muffin batter, I took Bunny’s routine one step further!

I started making the batter in bulk and storing it in plastic deli quarts in the freezer. Each night I would defrost a few quarts by moving them to the fridge. And each morning they would be perfectly scoopable. No mixing needed. A complete revelation.

If you think having cookie dough in your freezer is comforting, wait until you fill it with muffin batter. Whenever I defrost a tub, I feel like a woman in a Nancy Meyer’s movie, waking up to make her lover something truly delicious… but with much less effort.

One more note: zest.

I am convinced that people like my baking because 1) I always use yogurt or buttermilk in my cake base and 2) I use a lot of zest. My banana bread? There’s orange or lemon zest in there. Pound cake? Ditto. Carrot cake? Of course.

Citrus zest is something you can also store in your freezer. During the season, I will order boxes of Valencia oranges or tangelos, zest them all, and juice them. I store the zest in a flat ziplock (trying to get out as much air out as possible). Anytime I need a burst of flavor for a baked good, I break off a chunk and massage it into however much sugar the recipe calls for.

Perfuming sugar with zest is a good antidote to darkness. Stick your nose over the bowl– doesn’t it smell like Christmas?

Luckily, it’s not Christmas yet… but cranberry season has begun.

Get baking!

Cranberry–Orange Muffins

YIELD: 12 large muffins

Nota Bene– This recipe call for tulip-style parchment muffin liners (see photo below). These are easy to get online or at any specialty cookware shop. They are not cupcake liners, which are shorter and will not hold the amount of batter this recipe yields. No one wants a pewny muffin.

INGREDIENTS

227g salted butter, at room-temp

350g cane sugar, plus more for sprinkling

the zest of three oranges

2 large eggs, at room-temp

350g all-purpose flour

2 tsp baking powder

¼ tsp baking soda

250g buttermilk

75g orange juice (you can yield this from freshly squeezing one and a half or two oranges, depending on their juiciness)

1 tbsp vanilla extract

227g (2 cups) cranberries, fresh or frozen

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Preheat the oven to 350F.

2. Line a 12 slot muffin tin with parchment tulip–style liners.

   

3. Cream the butter in a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment.

4. In a medium bowl, massage the sugar and orange zest between your fingers until all the sugar is perfumed with orange. It should be fragrant. Add the orange sugar to the stand mixer and beat together with the butter until combined on medium speed. Stop and scrape down the sides of the mixer bowl, then increase the speed and whip the butter and sugar for 2–3 mins at high speed, until the mixture becomes light and fluffy. The mixture will appear whiter than at the start.

5. Add the eggs to the stand mixer, one at a time, mixing between additions.

6. In a large bowl, sift the flour, baking power, and baking soda. Whisk together.

7. In a measuring picture, combine the buttermilk, orange juice and vanilla. Give it a stir.

8. Alternate the additions of the dry and wet ingredients to the stand mixer, incorporating well between each addition. Start with a third of the dry mix, then a half of the wet, then a third of the dry mix, the rest of the wet, and then the remaining dry.

9. Once the batter is well-mixed (and sides scraped down), mix in the cranberries (these can come straight from the freezer).

10. At this point, you can proceed to bake the muffins in step 11. Or you can store the batter in plastic deli containers and freeze it for later use. The batter will last for 2 months in the freezer. To use it, move a container from the freezer to the fridge and let it sit overnight. The batter will be scoopable from fridge temp the following morning. Proceed to step 11.

11. Scoop batter into lined muffin tins. You want a slightly overfilled ½ cup of batter in each liner.

12. Sprinkle each muffin top with a generous pinch of sugar. You can use either granulated, caster, or turbinado sugar here. This will give the muffin its nice sweet top.

13. Bake for 40 to 45 mins in a standard oven. When the muffins are done, the tops should be golden, the sugar crackled, and a toothpick inserted into the muffin in the center of the tray should come out clean. If using a high fan or convection oven, you may need to reduce cooking time by 5–8 mins.

14. Let cool completely before eating.

MORE PHOTOS

Please pardon any typos. I am human. xx

I am Lily and I am launching a new newsletter here on Substack.

I am a chef who loves building businesses, eating sandwiches, and swimming in the sea. I split my time between New York and West Cork and I’ll be writing about that here.

Many of you will know me from the cafe I ran on Fishers Island, NY (I sold the cafe earlier this year). My main impetus for starting this letter is how much I miss firing off my old cafe newsletter. Those weekly musings on food, community, and local gossip were such a joy, and I know many of you felt the same.

Happy to be back.

First, some housekeeping. If you got this email this by mistake (sorry!), you can unsubscribe here. I am doing my best to navigate the back-end of Substack, but I am 29-going-on-80 and technologically inept, so I certainly fucked something up!

And yes, we are going to curse here. On occasion. Welcome.

The last time I wrote, I was posting the cafe for sale. And my sign-off was? “It’s okay to want more.” And, oh, how much more I have gotten.

I packed up my life, moved most of it to an apartment in Brooklyn (“temporary,” I said), and fit the rest in 2 orange suitcases bound for West Cork. I thought I was moving to Ireland.

What is it people keep telling me? And I never listen? Make plans, God laughs.

I did move. I flew over, started dating a farmer from Skibbereen, bought a mini cooper (four door! manual! left side of the road!), cooked on a movie set, tried to get into sailing… and sail racing… ending up bruised and beaten. I settled in with the people who are decidedly my people– at our weekly Friday sauna, at the counter at Levis’ Corner House, and out the back of Hackett’s Bar. I spent tens of hours researching shipping containers, sure I was packing up said apartment– from immersion blender to bed frame– into a metal box set for sea. I was blissed out and probably as tan as I have ever been (thank you Irish sunshine). I spent the remainder of summer swimming, baking, and riding the ferry to Heir Island for lunch with Johnny Desmond.

And if you don’t know what that means, you should stick around. Johnny Desmond’s lunch is life changing. Even if it takes 82 unanswered phone calls to his wife, Elmary, to get a reservation. I swore I would never live on an island again, but I’m happy to journey to one for steak & soufflé.

Here we are, though. October. New York City. A far cry from that little island.

And tho parts of me are sad, it is so romantic, falling back into this city.

As I skirted away from drinks last night with friends in town from Dublin… I kept looking up and feeling grateful for tall buildings. They always look better against a dark sky, like they are holding the little lights of all the unfulfilled desires of hungry people. These people– the ambitious, hungry workaholics– are also my people.

It’s so confusing– to know who you are and what you want between two very different worlds.

I walked for a little too long after drinks and ended up on the back porch of Buvette, tucked into a corner made for half a person. I wanted to sit somewhere I was allowed to take out my laptop, order cheese as a meal, and drink copious amounts of red wine.

Success. I wrote. Then I read some Mary Ruefle.

I am not sure what shape this letter will take, but I hope it will be a place to pump the breaks.

It will be a place that encourages us all to take that long lunch now because life is short.

I love lunch. It is my favorite meal.

To eat out. To eat at home. To eat alone.

To eat at diner counters, on white tablecloths, or over the kitchen sink.

It’s both a way to tune in— to put all my senses to use, to revel in deliciousness, to nourish a hunger that the modern world ignores— and a way to tune out.

When I’m eating lunch, I want to be as removed from the reality of doing as possible.

Cooking is a close second to eating. So I’ll also share some recipes with this letter!

It’s a toss up for our first recipe, coming out next week. There are two favorites I keep getting requests for: Cranberry Orange Muffins & Granola.

Tell me what you want to see first!

And meanwhile, join me in pulling out some wooly socks and curling up with a book of poetry. It’s cold this morning.

I’m back on Ms. Ruefle. In her book, My Private Property, she names different sadnesses by color. Back, red, yellow. Green, purple, grey. I like grey.

“Grey sadness,” she says, “is the most common of all the sadnesses, it is the sadness of sand in the desert and sand on the beach, the sadness of keys in the pocket, cans on the shelf, hair in a comb, dry-cleaning and raisins.”

I have been buying raisins. I have been getting new grey hairs. I have been shedding old ones. My brown mane is not what it once was. Something about age, stress, hormones. I pull my hair out of my comb every morning as I come to terms with the world.

The raisins are good tho. I get them at the Park Slope Food Coop. They are covered in chocolate, haphazard in size, and pre-portioned in little plastic bags with red ties.

I hate cans. I love keys. I love men’s shirts.

I always have sand in my pockets and at the bottom of my bags. Not by choice. It’s just there, along for the ride.

And sometimes, so am I.

Lots of love. More soon,

Lily

P.S. Keeping this as a free newsletter for now. Please excuse any typos, I am human.

Share this with a friend, or better yet, take them out to lunch.