A few weekends ago, I was walking down Thames when a cyclist stopped me in my tracks. Very abruptly. The funny thing is, the driver wasn’t even moving. Nor even on the bike.
Instead, the bike had become a type of converted kiosco, filled with
Argentine facturas: they’re flakey, buttery, sometimes gooey, and always delicious. They’re the culprit of the extra kilos I felt just a month or two after arriving in Buenos Aires. But besides muffin top building blocks, what exactly are
By Sharon Salt.
Kelly Poindexter is a Wisconsin native, second time expat. When she was a girl, she remembers thinking she was an actual princess – probably
I was on my way to an event and my arms were full or packages to deliver. I picked up a taxi on the busy corner next to my street and told him my destination.
“Vamos.” He replied as he drove off.
“Vamoooooos”, I confirmed, in my imitation Argentine
Pies are my favorite thing to bake. Pie is so underrated, and only eaten at Thanksgiving, but if we lived in a better world, pie would get more respect. I strive to create that world, one pie at a time.
This pie was for Friendsgiving
I studied abroad in Southwest France. It was divine.
When I arrived, I spoke no French. When I left I was fluent. Today, I speak no French.
On my first day in town, my French neighbor told me: “There are only two phrases you need to know
- I package of chipa mix, available at your local grocery store, or Manioc Flour.
- 3 Large Eggs
- 8 tablespoons of water
- 1/3 Cup Crumbled Blue Cheese
- 2 Green onions, finely chopped
Combine the flour, eggs, and water
Jamie came back to Buenos Aires after ten months in Los Angeles. He used to call me baby, but now it was ‘babe’. My one time muse was back for a quick visit. So we went for brunch.
“You live in Beverly Hills, don’t
I miss peanut butter. I can live without it, but I miss it. In Argentina there is no peanut butter. Well, it exists, but one must go to China Town to find an expensive imported mini jar of Skippy. Sometimes one stumbles across a locally produced
One day, we wandered through Recoleta, admiring the French architecture on our way to brunch. I was rambling on about how I would remodel the back yard of the Brazilian Ambassador’s mansion, if I lived there, and pre-debating whether I wanted