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ilovecharts:

Handy English/American vocabulary chart for foodies. Buy the print here.




"Endive = Chicory" I’d figured everything else out but that one.

ilovecharts:

Handy English/American vocabulary chart for foodies. Buy the print here.

"Endive = Chicory" I’d figured everything else out but that one.

(via darkryemag)

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In defiance of this New York winter I’m:
—wearing my “it’s cold coat” not my “it’s fucking cold coat”
—wearing my winter boots with the four inch heels, rather than my big, clompy boots
—drinking rose wine a good few months before it’s really the season to do so
—thinking that Californians may well be on to something.

In defiance of this New York winter I’m:

  • —wearing my “it’s cold coat” not my “it’s fucking cold coat”
  • —wearing my winter boots with the four inch heels, rather than my big, clompy boots
  • —drinking rose wine a good few months before it’s really the season to do so
  • —thinking that Californians may well be on to something.
Quote
"

That’s my Uncle Lee. He was in World War One when I was born. I was going to be named after him, but then I was a girl.

These days, it wouldn’t matter of course, I could have just been called Lee. But back then, they added Janie in front.

In the South I’m still Janie-Lee. That was dropped as soon as we moved North. No one up here has time for two names.

"

— Grams, looking at old family photos.

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The cold in New York is the kind of cold that you forget what it’s like to be warm.
It’s a cold that seems endless. The slush on the pavements has always been there, it will be there tomorrow, and the day after. The steps down to the subway are treacherous with slush, and ice, frozen and re-frozen snow. Each morning and each evening you pick a new path, trying to find a sure footing.
The jokes about sleeping bag coats and ugly snow boots have run out. The uniform of the commuter now bears little resemblance to the well dressed New Yorkers of autumn. Everyone is simply focused on staying warm—layers and layers of clothes, encased in giant bubble wrap coats. Where once there were shoes, there are now giant, clumpy boots. The kind of boots that go with nothing you own, practical, boring, ugly boots, a concession to choosing the prevention of sprained ankles over fashion.
Surviving the cold has become our major occupation. It’s a war of attrition. We’re waiting it out, looking for the day where the temperature will nudge up above freezing, when the slush will slowly disappear, when the sleeping bag coat can be replaced by something that doesn’t swallow you whole. Until then, the cold is nibbling at our fingers, and our toes. It’s there in the lost gloves, the slip and the slide on the pavement, and the lingering worry that maybe it will never get warm again.

The cold in New York is the kind of cold that you forget what it’s like to be warm.

It’s a cold that seems endless. The slush on the pavements has always been there, it will be there tomorrow, and the day after. The steps down to the subway are treacherous with slush, and ice, frozen and re-frozen snow. Each morning and each evening you pick a new path, trying to find a sure footing.

The jokes about sleeping bag coats and ugly snow boots have run out. The uniform of the commuter now bears little resemblance to the well dressed New Yorkers of autumn. Everyone is simply focused on staying warm—layers and layers of clothes, encased in giant bubble wrap coats. Where once there were shoes, there are now giant, clumpy boots. The kind of boots that go with nothing you own, practical, boring, ugly boots, a concession to choosing the prevention of sprained ankles over fashion.

Surviving the cold has become our major occupation. It’s a war of attrition. We’re waiting it out, looking for the day where the temperature will nudge up above freezing, when the slush will slowly disappear, when the sleeping bag coat can be replaced by something that doesn’t swallow you whole. Until then, the cold is nibbling at our fingers, and our toes. It’s there in the lost gloves, the slip and the slide on the pavement, and the lingering worry that maybe it will never get warm again.

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rookiemag:

this is so great!(wish there was source attached for credit!)
laiax

rookiemag:

this is so great!
(wish there was source attached for credit!)

laia
x

(Source: gracebello, via rookiemag)

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"Come quickly, I am drinking the stars!"

Dom Pérignon after inventing champagne  (via saintofsass)

(Source: thesnicketfile, via darkryemag)

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South Somercotes—December 2013
I’d forgotten how big the sky was.
It sounds odd to say it, to write it down, but I’d really forgotten.
Spending my days surrounded by buildings three, four, twenty, forty, a hundred stories high, I don’t see the sky, not really. It’s a corridor of blue above. It’s as wide as an avenue, hemmed in by buildings on either side.  The bright blue is marked, briefly, by clouds that are soon out of sight. At night, it’s edges are shaped by the lights of the city. It’s not infinite, it’s not dark, it’s a dirty, orange, brown.
But out in the field, on the flat of the Lincolnshire marsh, it’s none of those things. It’s wide, and huge, and vast. It’s a hundred colors between the brightest blue and dullest grey. It has no borders, it’s edges are caught only by the curve of the earth. As far as the eye can see, in all directions the sky is above and the marsh is below.

South Somercotes—December 2013

I’d forgotten how big the sky was.

It sounds odd to say it, to write it down, but I’d really forgotten.

Spending my days surrounded by buildings three, four, twenty, forty, a hundred stories high, I don’t see the sky, not really. It’s a corridor of blue above. It’s as wide as an avenue, hemmed in by buildings on either side. The bright blue is marked, briefly, by clouds that are soon out of sight. At night, it’s edges are shaped by the lights of the city. It’s not infinite, it’s not dark, it’s a dirty, orange, brown.

But out in the field, on the flat of the Lincolnshire marsh, it’s none of those things. It’s wide, and huge, and vast. It’s a hundred colors between the brightest blue and dullest grey. It has no borders, it’s edges are caught only by the curve of the earth. As far as the eye can see, in all directions the sky is above and the marsh is below.

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newyorker:

The chocolate-chip cookie celebrated its seventy-fifth birthday this year. Jon Michaud looks at the origins of the iconic American food: http://nyr.kr/1l8bJo2

Photograph: Francesco Tonelli /The New York Times

newyorker:

The chocolate-chip cookie celebrated its seventy-fifth birthday this year. Jon Michaud looks at the origins of the iconic American food: http://nyr.kr/1l8bJo2

Photograph: Francesco Tonelli /The New York Times

(Source: newyorker.com)

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newyorker:

A look at next week’s cover, “Madiba,” by the artist Kadir Nelson: http://nyr.kr/1f0Bwh0

newyorker:

A look at next week’s cover, “Madiba,” by the artist Kadir Nelson: http://nyr.kr/1f0Bwh0

(Source: newyorker.com)

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lauraolin:

Things you learn from the Obama 2012 campaign