For some people it’s the summer of tinned fish. For me it’s the summer of spatchcock.
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Am I crying because they’re a full-on hellscape of Southern Italian heat or because my house smells like the vestibule at a TGI Fridays c. 2005 or both or neither?
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Exactly the kind of balance we’re striving for in 2022: realistic, easygoing, maybe a little self-indulgent, but definitely not trying too hard to do anything overly ambitious because let’s be real, we all saw how that worked out last year.
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In the chaotic turbulence of existence, there is comfort in that which refuses to change. And here we are, eating piccata like it’s 1989.
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