Arranged on the banquet table of the "Ladie's Day" there were halves of lawyers yellow green, stuffed crab and mayonnaise, platters of roast rare, cold chicken, and regular glass cups filled with chopped black caviar. That morning I had not had time to swallow any breakfast in the cafeteria of the hotel except a cup of coffee boiled too long and was so bitter that it had pinched his nose j 'were starving.
Early The bell distress (The bell jar ), heroin Sylvia Plath, Esther Greenwood, won a poetry contest and finds himself in New York with the other eleven winners, girls sometimes whimsical, or who are called Doreen and Betsy who wear strapless dresses, or pink negligees fishing. New York receptions, meetings in bars a bit dark but I was glad I especially love the memories of Esther, her relationship with Buddy Willard, a boy of good family who flirts with the waitresses of Cape Cod, a TB type who studied medicine and, by way of entertainment (warning) Esther leads a delivery room. I find it hard to leave this novel, recommended by knowledgeable Rose ; I'm here to his first meeting with a psychiatrist, bad omen.
A month after its publication in the winter of 1963, Sylvia Plath, in the London flat where she lived with her two children, light the gas and awaits its end, not without leaving some milk and cookies on the table the kitchen. His poems are beautiful and move me to tears.
the other time, it is also the effect that made me E. the first time I crossed the crowded auditorium of the first year of medical school. We wore the same sandals, his were green apple, mine sand color. She lived near station, in an apartment on the seventh floor. The elevator does not rise so high, he had to climb the last steps on foot. Her roommate was studying mathematics. E. had a very nice room on the floor, with phosphorescent stars on the ceiling. The kitchen was tiny. I spent much time in this apartment, she comforted me more grief, I sometimes stayed to sleep, we've shared some banana-chocolate pancakes, scrapers, four on a device made for two, profiteroles home many secrets. One day in September, I had to take the train to Nantes, where she had moved because of the vagaries life, she was waiting in the lobby of the station with tickets to Deauville. We slept in a guest room with flowers, we had lunch with Four cats, there was apple pie that Sunday. I also remember a fish soup to Quiberon, a crepe orange-chocolate somewhere in Brittany, two concerts by Vincent Delerm, Jeanne Balibar on stage, letters, full of colorful letters in envelopes.
I was awkward for sure, I was a little lacking sometimes. I do not know how to fix. I do not know his friends, I do not know where she goes on vacation, I do not know what she reads. His voice, in the cold plastic of the phone seems so distant. ****
The last time I thought to stop writing tickets and got the decision at first relieved: I have never seen so many movies since my teens (I ' will come back in), plenty of room for the piano too. I felt a little hurt, it's hard to explain, most want to expose myself anyway. And then I read Sylvia Plath ... if she knew. Life is really unimaginable.
The hot days, you want to eat with your fingers, if possible, something we imagine you bought on the beach in a hot country. I decided to make pita house and fill them with scented keftas. Absolutely delightful.
For bread, easy, I followed a sure (I was very happy bunch of users of fresh yeast wrapped in silver paper with a giraffe on it, unearthed by chance in a supermarket instead of Sainte-Anne . For proportions, we must make twice as much as in the case of dry yeast). For the
keftas a small detour to the butcher to buy a Sunday morning 500g lamb shoulder chop we going with small slice of stale bread soaked in milk then drained, an egg, a teaspoon of cumin , a teaspoon of ras el hanout , a little salt , the cilantro. They make balls the size of a walnut that surrounds the rusks reduced fine crumbs before browning in a large skillet with oil. In a warm pita
, collect tomato slices few leaves salad, slices of spring onion , the yogurt sauce keftas and burning. Difficult to eat properly but regressive wish.
Early The bell distress (The bell jar ), heroin Sylvia Plath, Esther Greenwood, won a poetry contest and finds himself in New York with the other eleven winners, girls sometimes whimsical, or who are called Doreen and Betsy who wear strapless dresses, or pink negligees fishing. New York receptions, meetings in bars a bit dark but I was glad I especially love the memories of Esther, her relationship with Buddy Willard, a boy of good family who flirts with the waitresses of Cape Cod, a TB type who studied medicine and, by way of entertainment (warning) Esther leads a delivery room. I find it hard to leave this novel, recommended by knowledgeable Rose ; I'm here to his first meeting with a psychiatrist, bad omen.
A month after its publication in the winter of 1963, Sylvia Plath, in the London flat where she lived with her two children, light the gas and awaits its end, not without leaving some milk and cookies on the table the kitchen. His poems are beautiful and move me to tears.
the other time, it is also the effect that made me E. the first time I crossed the crowded auditorium of the first year of medical school. We wore the same sandals, his were green apple, mine sand color. She lived near station, in an apartment on the seventh floor. The elevator does not rise so high, he had to climb the last steps on foot. Her roommate was studying mathematics. E. had a very nice room on the floor, with phosphorescent stars on the ceiling. The kitchen was tiny. I spent much time in this apartment, she comforted me more grief, I sometimes stayed to sleep, we've shared some banana-chocolate pancakes, scrapers, four on a device made for two, profiteroles home many secrets. One day in September, I had to take the train to Nantes, where she had moved because of the vagaries life, she was waiting in the lobby of the station with tickets to Deauville. We slept in a guest room with flowers, we had lunch with Four cats, there was apple pie that Sunday. I also remember a fish soup to Quiberon, a crepe orange-chocolate somewhere in Brittany, two concerts by Vincent Delerm, Jeanne Balibar on stage, letters, full of colorful letters in envelopes.
I was awkward for sure, I was a little lacking sometimes. I do not know how to fix. I do not know his friends, I do not know where she goes on vacation, I do not know what she reads. His voice, in the cold plastic of the phone seems so distant. ****
The last time I thought to stop writing tickets and got the decision at first relieved: I have never seen so many movies since my teens (I ' will come back in), plenty of room for the piano too. I felt a little hurt, it's hard to explain, most want to expose myself anyway. And then I read Sylvia Plath ... if she knew. Life is really unimaginable.
The hot days, you want to eat with your fingers, if possible, something we imagine you bought on the beach in a hot country. I decided to make pita house and fill them with scented keftas. Absolutely delightful.
For bread, easy, I followed a sure (I was very happy bunch of users of fresh yeast wrapped in silver paper with a giraffe on it, unearthed by chance in a supermarket instead of Sainte-Anne . For proportions, we must make twice as much as in the case of dry yeast). For the
keftas a small detour to the butcher to buy a Sunday morning 500g lamb shoulder chop we going with small slice of stale bread soaked in milk then drained, an egg, a teaspoon of cumin , a teaspoon of ras el hanout , a little salt , the cilantro. They make balls the size of a walnut that surrounds the rusks reduced fine crumbs before browning in a large skillet with oil. In a warm pita
, collect tomato slices few leaves salad, slices of spring onion , the yogurt sauce keftas and burning. Difficult to eat properly but regressive wish.
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