The Best Fluffy Pancakes recipe you will fall in love with. Full of tips and tricks to help you make the best pancakes.
I passed this way thirty years ago. Four days and nights by train . . . Now it’s under sixty hours, eight by plane.Soon Tupolevs will make Moscow-Bakutwo hours and ten minutes…Thirty years agosongs filled the train—songs like a handkerchief…
Close to the border in Bohemia,at the warm springs of Frantishkovy-Lazny, the sky swells with hot clouds.Light seeps through the Turkish bath’s steamed—up window, the smell of moist flesh mingles with the scent of red roses.Water flows freely here,curing heart…
Midnight. The last bus.The conductor cuts me a ticket. Neither bad news nor a big dinner is waiting for me at home.For me, absence waits.I approach it without sadness or fear.The great dark is closing in. Now I can look…
In Kurort-Varna, I look from the balcony of the Balkan-Tourist:the road, trees, beyond them sand,beyond that must be sea and sky-no, neither sea nor sky,beyond the sand is simply light, no end of light . . .And this smell of…
No way you can sleep nights in Varna,no way you can sleep:for the wealth of starsso close and brilliant,for the rustle of dead waves on the sand,of salty weedswith their pearly shellsand pebbles,for the sound of a motorboat throbbing like…
I entered Sofia on a spring day, my sweet. Your native city smelled of linden trees. It is my fateto roam the world without you, what can we do… In Sofia, trees mean more than walls. Trees and people blend…
This thing called Prague is a magic mirror.I look,and it shows me in my twenties.I am like leaping.I’m like thirty-two healthy teeth, and the world is a walnut.But I want nothing for myself, exceptto touch the fingers of the girl…
1957, January 17. Nine o’clock exactly. Sun-bright dry cold, no lies, dry cold rose-pink,sky-blue dry cold.My red mustache nearly freezes. The city of Prague is etched on cut glass with a diamond point.If I touch it, it will ring: gold-edged,…
In Prague it’s growing lightand snowing—sleety,leaden.In Prague the baroque slowly lights up:uneasy, distant,its gilt grief-blackened.The statues on Charles Bridgelook like birds descended from a dead star.In Prague the first trolley has left the garage, its windows glow yellow and warm.But…
Below the towers, under the arcades, I wander through Prague late at night.The sky is an alembic distilling gold in the dark—an alchemist’s still over a deep-blue flame.I walk down the hill toward Charles Square: on the corner, next to…