Last night, K. and I had some friends over for the first time. How better to impress them than by making ice cream! We ended up making David Lebovitz's Malt Ball Icecream from his cookbook, The Perfect Scoop. When we scooped it out for dessert last night it didn't have enough time to freeze all the way so it was more like Malt Ball Soft Serve. I may have stolen a spoonful this morning as I waited for my morning coffee to brew, and it froze perfectly!
Speaking of Mr. Lebovitz, K. and I fight over who would get to be David Lebovitz's boyfriend because he's so freaking cool. His blog is also awesome. (Case in point: he just posted a recipe for absinthe ice cream!) Part of the reason why I love him so much is that he posts about recipes that don't come out perfectly. It takes a person secure in their cooking skillz to admit when he has failed, my friends. Plus, the same blog entry yielded this gem:
So yesterday I made an appointment for a spa day (well, my ship hasn't quite come in yet, so for now it's gonna have to be a half-day) which seemed like a great idea so I barreled my way through the harrowing crowds on the streets of the Marais, a magical place where people lose sense of time and place, and the idea of walking in a straight line is come bizarre concept that eludes the masses. Something seems to happen to people when they enter that quartier; the rest of the world magically vaporizes and it's as if no other person exists but them.
In my haste to avoid being crushed, or bruised by gold chains on jeans, slashed by a zipper on an errant backside, or blinded by sunglasses where the D&G logo dwarfs their well-tanned ears, I passed a store window and saw the shoes of-my-dreams inside, which cost roughly the same amount as the few hours of horizontal, oily bliss I was planning on having later this week.