“Keep hoping that you can continue to ignore all those wretched customers that look for swanky food, and hope that the critics are good enough to distinguish the difference between trendy, pretentious menus and the qua
In recent weeks we’ve had unnerving encounters with black mambas, spitting cobras and puff adders.
Time and again I return to the wisdom of John O’Donohue, an Irish poet/philosopher I first discovered when buried deep in fear and confusion amidst the gradual crumbling of my exiled life in the United States.
Chris and I are shortly off to Amalfi in Italy.
It’s that time of year. August. Late winter on our edge of the Zambezi escarpment. When the earth heats up; when the seeds go wild. My garden is coming into its annual climax and my heart is happy.
The language of food echoes through the generations in rural Zambia.