The smell of my son when he wakes up. My wife’s smile in every situation. The silence of the first coffee of the day. The presence of love. Ibrahim Maalouf’s trumpet, muffled. The smell of the sea. A glass of Tempranillo just when I feel like it. Conversations with smart people about anything. The sunset seen from the boom of the plane. Swiss chocolate. Rain on the skin. Grass under bare feet. The company of truly ancient trees. Leonard Cohen’s poetry. One hour at the Istanbul hammam. A long breakfast. True friendship with a balanced man. A smile received out of the blue on the street. The mixed smells of a clean market. Not to say a word for hours. The taste of mountain water. Dobrogean lamb cooked over low heat. The pleasure that comes exactly when a cold shower ends. The uninterrupted bond with a childhood friend. When my mother cooks. Balkan flower honey on milk cream, on a slice of warm bread. Freshly squeezed sunflower oil from the press. Aged must, taken out of the refrigerator. Cucumbers marinated in water with salt and dill. Absinthe wine. The smell of the forest after the rain. Transylvanian foliage seen from above in the second week of October. Long “business class” flights. Kempinski beds. Dinner in Arzak. Touching the centuries-old olive trees. Doina from the horse near the fire. The Perseids. Bucovina smoked trout. Gluten. Cooked red meat “rare”. A day on the Aegean, on the deck of a sailboat. A thin slice of Iberian ham on the tongue. Smoked bacon, with tomatoes from the garden and battered pita from Colțești. The friendship of Andoni Luis Aduriz. Birch cres cake. The smell of roasted chestnuts. Fresh red watermelon core, crushed on the palate. The sex. The sincerity of the third glass of wine. Six tacos. Tomato juice mixed with salt and oil, collected in the core of the bread. star trek binge, episodes shot before approx “politically correct” become the new dominant religion. The long walks. A book written by Amor Towels. An hour with the eyes on the whirling dervishes and the heart on Rumi. A day with Mugur and his horses, through the forests of Cluj. Grilled corn. The nectar of acacia flowers. That chocolate cake. A real espresso after spending a week away from Europe. Cherries imported in the third week of May. Chicken noodle soup and lots of parsley. Lamb borsch with lots of buttermilk. Belly soup full of edges. Pintxos in San Sebastián. Three consecutive days of golf. Terrace overlooking the lake. Pie with blue cheese, green onion tails and dill. Tiramisu. Straw potatoes, with a fried egg on top. Soft yolk. Vanilla salt, on the slightly (a little) fatty pork. A ham and cucumber sandwich at 4pm The feeling that everything is fine. Pasta with sea urchins, green onions and butter. A successful and very cool black girl. The weather. The rare moments when my dog, an imperial and stern by nature Akita Inu, shows signs that he might like me. General sedation before colonoscopy and peace after. Choux with chantilly cream. Apricot kernels. Almost ripe walnuts, cleaned of bitter skin. Almost burnt fried eggs in butter. Reading books. Inner peace, when there is The smell of lemon peel when you hold it between your fingers. Raisins soaked in brandy. The smell of lavender. Eggplant salad with mayonnaise. Eggplant salad without mayonnaise. Făgăraș cream with finely chopped red onion, salt and a little fresh dill. Caffè de Il Caffe, the Cluj bakery. Gloves with one finger, winter. Consciously slip into sleep after 20 hours of work. Strawberry foam. Red prawns from Denia, raw, with a little salt and a drizzle of olive oil pinch. The first green field I see in spring. Hot milk on cold polenta, left over from yesterday. The bitter taste, when it is in its place. The cold side of the pillow on summer nights. Friganelle eaten with cheese with blue mold and fresh cherry tomatoes. Koskeroglu’s Baklavale. Paella Valenciana, with snails, rabbit and chicken legs. Tuzlamaua from veal legs. Veal brain with pepper and salt, cooked in parchment paper, on the fire or on the grill. Mummies with demi-glace of beef and mashed potatoes with lots of butter. To forget my phone at home and leave it there for a whole day. One hour at the National Art Museum with Adrian Buga. Maldon salt on a piece of Iberian pork. Cold bubbles from a good Crémant. Grilled peaches dipped in rum. Pedro Ximenez. The thin cutlets of Banat. Whatever Dragoș Tudoran cooks. Quince pie drunk from a glass taken out of the freezer. Goose liver (but n Foie gras) with caramelized onions and a mouthful of very, very cold incense. The last half-kilo scoop of chocolate ice cream. Chestnut honey. The pumpkin is ripe in December, after the cold has slightly touched it. Strawberries with tarragon and a few grains of salt. The apple in the apple pie. Life as it is.
Adrian Hadean is humor, food blogger and former journalist. Most recent book published: # 24cm (Old Court Publishing House, 2016)
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