Sunday, June 12, 2011

Backtrack to the 1970s for a little lemon risotto

It's a lazy Sunday afternoon in the city, the sun retreating into a three-quarters moon. It was a gorgeous weekend here: temperatures in the high 60s, sundresses on the streets. The sun is supposed to stick around for most of this week, too. I can't say I mind the Argentine winter just yet.

I had a lovely time this afternoon drinking coffee with a University of Illinois law student at a cafe nearby who's also working at a firm this summer. I got his contact information through my subletter, another law student who coincidentally spent last summer at a firm in Argentina. We've never met, but she's been giving me helpful tips about the city via email, and I almost feel like I know her. Anyway, it turns out that Oscar also got the "just be relaxed" talk at the start of his internship, but he's actually been given a lot of work, and is even working on the weekends. Maybe I should be more appreciative of my very much relaxed time at my firm.

It does free up some time to keep translating for IFN, which is in fact what I am avoiding doing right now. Instead, I'd like to welcome you to my apartment. It's a lovely place with two balconies—one for lounging, one for hanging wash—and a well-stocked kitchen straight from the 1970s.

It's dotted with ballet posters from across the world. It took a few days to figure out that the owner of the apartment, Mauricio Wainrot, is listed as the choreographer on all of them. (I haven't met him, only his secretary.)

The new apartment was christened with a little dinner party last week. It was exactly the impetus I needed to finally step away from toast-for-dinner and make a decent meal. I had three guests: Toti, the Argentine lawyer from my firm, and Tyrone and Lydia, the cutest Canadian couple you'll ever meet who got engaged on top of Machu Picchu. I met them in Mendoza, and it's been so lovely to see them again in Buenos Aires. They've made a regular Canucks fan out of me. Anyway, I made lemon risotto with rosemary chicken and chorizo, which actually didn't turn out half bad. And the self-timed pic was only slightly off-center—a successful night by all accounts!

One last thing: The apartment is right near a school, though I haven't been able to find it. But I can definitely hear it—recess sounds just about the same anywhere in the world. The other day I even heard a perfect rendition of "Baby," handiwork of Justin Bieber, another illustrious Canadian born in a town called Stratford (of all places). Not quite as good as Taio Cruz, but close.

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