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From ages 7 to let’s say 10 but honestly it was older than 10, my at first most-prized and later on most-loved possession was my Felicity American Girl doll. Like all of the historical American G’s, Felicity had a backstory — she was from colonial Williamsburg, and her father was a shopkeeper and a revolutionary who
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I haven’t seen The End of the Tour yet, though the first fumbling, bandana’ed seconds of the trailer sold me. I liked Jason Segal in Forgetting Sarah Marshal; he brought a earnest, kind pathos to a role lesser comedic actors would have made merely whinging and pathetic. From the End of the Tour trailer, it
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The fall of my senior year of high school, I lost my sense of smell. It happened gradually, perhaps, or perhaps it didn’t. Before I lost it, I was not the sort of person who exclaims over how good things smell, or how bad, though there were scents that made me feel happy and sprightly,
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Mostly, my fingers shrink from mold and squooshy, caterpillar-like guts. But when I was little, I used to pick big knobbly blackberries and the rare black raspberry from the overgrown bramble that separated the end of our front lawn from the private road we called “the slow road.” Even as a kid, and certainly as
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Farrago is a synonym for hodgepodge — “a confused mix,” per the dictionary. Today, we went to see Infinitely Polar Bear, a biopic of sorts about a bipolar Bostonian and the eighteen months he spent caring for his two young daughters while their mother went to business school, in New York. The movie itself is
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A friend, in a fundraising email for a summer camp, wrote that the camp’s mission statement contains the line: “To create a youthful ruckus of adventure and spirit where souls are ripened and freedom is discovered.” First of all, that is fantastic, and exactly what all camps should be, rather than the dull monotony of
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Apart from thermoses of Progresso Chicken Noodle and stacks of Pad Thai in bending foil containers, scarfed in intervals during summer swim meets, picnics were not a regular occurrence in my household. We ate too fast, for one thing; for another, the schedules of four/sometimes six/sometimes seven kids didn’t leave much time for lolling about on
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My previous post had me wondering about the origin of the word “marshmallow.” It’s a beautiful compound, if you can squeeze out the primary-colored bubble letters it’s normally written in. I had vague recollections of a Burt’s Bees marsh mallow face cream, which made me think the mucilaginous candy had plant-based origins, and indeed, it does.
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But the best way, and the only way I know, is to start along typical marshmallow toasting procedures, and then bang a hard left, into heavy roasting. Most marshmallow roasters hold up as their paradigm a uniformly dun-colored surface neatly containing a roiling mass of fluff. Recreating this paradigm requires slow and methodical rotation in the flames’
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Every Friday, New York Magazine‘s food blog, Grubstreet, puts out a feature called “New York Diet,” wherein one New Yorker chronicles everything that’s passed his/her lips over the past week. The Dieters tend to be chefs, TV personalities and actors, musicians, or writers, which makes for a fun bit of window-peeping. Often, the diets contain a lot
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