When Andy mentioned a dish called Eggs Goldenrod fondly from his Texan childhood, I was intrigued. Growing up with chickens we had egg dishes of all sorts, including one where you make scrambled eggs from the yolk, spread it on toast and then beat the whites, dollop them on top with a sprinkling of cheese under the grill. There was a posher version of the recipe that suggested it was a dish with French origins called Eggs a la goldenrod.

I want a second hand bike. One that I could leave locked up on the street and not be paranoid about someone trying to steal it. One that has an untold story, as if it were hiding a secret. One that has color and maybe a basket.

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Monday, June 11, 2012. The smell of woodsmoke in the air and the crisp bite of autumn chill nipping at my nose send me into paroxysms of glee every year. They used to remind me of camping trips, building fires to roast marshmallows over, and making big meals to freeze for the nights when you just want to shove something in the oven and be done with it.