I will remember this recipe until the day that I die. Perhaps because I baked these cookies during a pleasant mid-August afternoon in the elegant kitchen of a stunning house in Burgundy, far away from my food machine, essential in my constant struggle against time, far away from the humid heat of the Po valley, far away from everything that is daily life 355 days per year.
Waking up slowly in the most absolute silence, a short walk in the garden among the quince and mirabelle plum trees to the pond, reaching then the coop where beautiful hens leave every morning their delicious eggs.
Janette, the shrillest and most affectionate, follows me to the door of the house, makes herself comfortable on the rug, and observes me, her head slightly bent on one side. Continue Reading…