Wimbly

I'm always careful who I admit my obsession with Wimbledon to. Mainly because it's such a shamefully serious one. It  started with school summer holidays, when there were only four television channels and a Scottish summer to entertain my sister and I for eight weeks every year. The only thing to watch for two of them was Wimbledon, so we just decided we'd better just learn the rules and start watching. 

So I spent all the precious sunny days of my school summer holidays inside, glued to our tiny television, watching Sampras and Ivanisevic and Hingis and Davenport. In the rain delays, I'd pass the time walloping a ball against the house, hoping that one of the aforementioned might just happen to be passing, notice my latent tennis skill, and whisk me away to tennis school.

This never happened, evidently, but those summers have left me now with a serious need to watch as many Wimbledon matches as I possibly can. 

There's probably nothing more stereotypical to sustain this than these little pots of English strawberries, but I'm quite happy to go with that. I'll reflex-eat them on their own, or more slowly, with sugar sprinkled on top. If I'm lucky though and Ben has reached tennis saturation point and needs some kitchen time, I get to eat them with meringues, strawberry syrup and vanilla yoghurt, heaped into a pile.

Haul

Nothing signifies quite how different New York and Bristol are to me the way my new umbrella does. It's funny really, as when it rained in NY, I huddled under a ridiculously tiny umbrella all month – every time I decided to just bite the bullet and buy a proper one, the sun came out.

I bought this one on my last day in New York, which was sunny and hot and beautiful, and when I definitely didn't need one. I definitely need it now. It has poured with rain all month in England, so that the trees are green and drippy, and my umbrella is always by my side – and when I put this one up, the sun never comes out.

I brought a couple of other things back with me, all of them green too, coincidentally. 

The Baking of Eggs

I think I'm posting this partly just to remind myself just how amazing Eggs in Pots are, and to stop my brain from picturing them as miserable, grey 1970s-cookbook fare. Baking eggs is so satisfying, especially if you refer to them by their flirtatious French name: 'oefs en cocotte'.

I've never posted a recipe here before (I'm a little nervous about it, to be honest) but Eggs in Pots just happens to fit quite perfectly with my most unexpected post-America aim: to eat small plates of food. 

There were so many amazing places to eat in New York that I often felt as though I needed to fit a whole lifetime of eating into a month; eating smaller things, more often, in lots of different places, seemed to solve the problem. I'm trying to keep it going now that I'm back in large-dinnered England, and these are so easy that even I can make them.

So, these eggs. If I could just make myself remember how incredibly tasty they are, I'd eat them all the time: for a weekend lunch, brunch, or just a small-plate kind of dinner. 

Baked Eggs in Pots for two (adapted from Stephane Renaud's Ripailles and Rachel Khoo's Little Paris Kitchen.

What you Need:

150ml (approx.) crème fraîche

2 eggs

chorizo (optional)

parsley

salt

pepper

1.  Heat the oven to 180ºC (350ºF). 

2.  Put a dessert spoonful of crème fraîche into each of your ramekins and season with salt and pepper.

3.  Break an egg into the ramekin, and cover with another dessert spoon of crème fraîche. 

4.  Chop some chorizo and parsley (as much as you like) and sprinkle on top. 

5.  Place the ramekins in a tray of boiled water (making sure that the water can't get into the pots) and put the tray in the oven for 12-15 minutes. 

Serve with slices of buttery toast, and you're away!

The Last Few Days in New York

Before I got there, I thought I would arrive in New York and feel just as comfortable with it as if it were London. In reality, it took at least three weeks for that to properly happen. Those first weeks were filled with trying to learn how best to use our time, how best to cross the street, where to eat, how to tip a barman (still not entirely up on that, if anyone wants to enlighten me!)... but the last week was suddenly quite calm. 

We'd worked (most) things out, we had places we wanted to revisit (rather than dashing around trying everything for the first time) and had a couple of loose ends to tie up. So, we just pottered around, drank some coffee and visited some things: Stumptown Coffee for incredible coffee and a chemistry set of brewing gadgets, Pies & Thighs for chicken and biscuits and the best donuts, the UN headquarters (strangely hospital-like) and the Met Museum. 

Then we went home.

Governors Island

I kind of knew that going to Governors Island on opening weekend when the weather is 27 degrees would be a mistake – and it kind of was and it kind of wasn't. It was mobbed, there were rented-bicycle bells everywhere, and it was way too hot – but there was a hidden gem.

Governors Island, for anyone who doesn't know, was once a historic US Army barracks at the foot of Manhattan – all drilling grounds, parade grounds, canons and billets. It's quite fascinating from that perspective, although the leftover colonial-style houses are strange – it's like a little secret ghost town, with padlocked doors, empty verandas and boarded windows. Nowadays it's open to the public for the summer (they hold the amazing-looking Jazz Age lawn party there in June).

One house that wasn't padlocked (although I'm almost certain that it should have been, given the state of it) was the Commander's House – a huge sprawl of a crumbling mansion, with little hints of what it once was. It was fascinating to be able to have such a good look around, even if it wasn't actually permitted, strictly speaking. It felt strangely like a open house view, but without the purchasing option.

Asparagus

Lately, we realised that Ben is only ever really happy when he gets to cook things. This of course mystifies me completely, as I never really feel the need to cook anything at all, but all the same, we decided that in this city of amazingly priced (and delicious) eating out, we would see if we could try to do some amazingly priced eating in for a change.

The Union Square Market is a feel-good kind of place I think, especially when the sun comes out. The farmers get to sell without a middleman, the buyers get to buy without a middleman and also get the added bonus of making the farmers happy, while the produce you can buy there is incredibly good. 

Little dogs padded around, a stallholder called me over to chat about my AE-1 (which was nice, although initially I thought he was going to tell me off for photographing the flowers he was selling), baskets were filled with amazing things and there were lots of virtuous paper bags everywhere. It's a world away from the double-bagging-addicted supermarket down the street from our apartment in Bushwick.

Anyway, it seems it is asparagus season at the moment. So that's what we bought. We also bought some San Francisco sourdough bread, as I read somewhere (annoyingly I can't remember where) that the natural yeast in the air in San Francisco makes the best sourdough starter and the tastiest loaf. I can't vouch for how San Franciscan this loaf really was, given that we are coasts apart, but it was easily the nicest sourdough I've had.

So we ate in. Asparagus and poached eggs and sourdough and butter, and it was delicious, and quite grounding. The number of mac & cheese variations that I am yet to try out might put a stop to it for now though – you just can't get mac & cheese like the mac & cheese in New York.

The Brooklyn Way

My uncharacteristic over-planning paid off, and I made it to New York. I like it here.

I'm here for a while, so it should be less frantic than a typical New York 'holiday', but still, it's hard to get out of the holiday habit of walking too far, for too long, and feeling overwhelmed by all the things you want to do that you haven't done.

I'm in the holiday habit at the moment however, so I'm running around all over the place. One place I'm so glad I did run into though was Cafe Habana in Brooklyn (found via Kate), which was lovely, and made me seriously reconsider my general dislike of sweetcorn. A foggy walk over the Brooklyn Bridge, though incredibly touristy, was so impressive.

It amazes me how raw everything feels here, despite being worn down by the heels of so many tourists and so many locals for so long, while the amount of choice makes me realise how narrow things can often be in England. One of the reasons I wanted to come here for so long was to look at things from a completely different perspective, and to give myself enough time away from my real life to process it all. The perspective kicked in the minute I arrived – the thinking time, hopefully, will happen soon.