Something foodie for the summer.
I'm trying to get back to blogging regularly, a process which, incidentally, you have the high privilege of witnessing. As is usual for me whenever I have to pick myself up and dust myself off – some days I feel as if I have a black belt therein – I go for the edibles and the potables. Today is no exception. This was prompted by a brief exchange I had on Twitter (you should hang out on Twitter with us, it's nice) in which I gloated, without the merest chemical trace of shame or compunction on the matter of my KILLER gazpacho. Ovah heah (by which I mean the northern hemisphere) gazpacho season is upon us yet again, and as your go-to Iberic, it is incumbent upon me to set everyone straight on the procedural gazpacho process. When you stagger into a tapas bar in, say, Sevilla, you will spy with your little eye a glass pitcher. Said pitcher it would seem to the casual and inattentive observer – not you, natch, but the casual and inattentive observer – to contain some sor