Barbra Austin

I kicked off my birthday weekend by climbing into my apartment on a ladder.

…And so am I.

I would like to dedicate this photo to every Parisian cashier who has ever given anyone a hard time for not having exact change.

Today I bought myrtilles in Paris for a tart I’m working on. Exactly one year ago I went blueberry picking with my mother in Ohio.

Did the economy fully collapse while I was flying over the North Atlantic? Is the flood finally coming? No, it’s just a Sunday in August in Paris.

Last Friday I participated in quasi-American style cookout on the rooftop terrace at Mama Shelter, a boutique hotel in the far reaches of the 20th arrondissiment. It was a beautiful evening, and not even the paunchy half naked man looking out his window across the street could take away from the stunning, flaming pink sky.

The bad news is that it’s really, really hot in Paris right now. The good news is that it doesn’t get dark until 10:30, so that when things start cooling off in the evening there’s still plenty of light left.

Not that Paris isn’t beautiful in the dark…

There is a lot on my plate at the moment, and I wish I meant that literally, since last night’s dinner seems to have gotten lost somewhere between French class, phone calls, and packing.

When I eat steak I think of my father.

Eating is a daily necessity, on the list of things we do every day that we could collectively call “living”. But it isn’t necessarily part of the daily grind.