“How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.” Annie Dillard
How I choose to live seems too big a question but how I choose to spend an hour seems much more manageable. Though it follows that the two are inextricably linked.
And now may I present my case for apéro hour, that golden pause before dinner when the light softens, a drink is poured, and something small but satisfying appears alongside it. The Italians have their aperitivo, the French their apéro. It isn’t meant to replace dinner — it’s a pit-stop along the way. The moment you shake off the day, pour a drink, and exhale. It’s a ritual that thrives on ease: finger food over formal plates, conversation over cutlery.
You might have a new party trick doing the rounds online — the Dirty Martini Dip. It’s a creamy, tangy mix of cream cheese and sour cream, laced with blue cheese, briny olives and, naturally, a splash of gin (vodka just doesn’t cut it in my books). Spread thick on crackers or scooped up with potato chips, it’s everything I want from an apéro nibble: indulgent, salty, and a little tongue-in-cheek.
When I want to keep things simple, I crack open a tin of seafood. Anchovies are an obvious choice, but the other weekend I wooed friends with a tin of smoked mussels, served with soft, fluffy flatbread to mop up the seasoned oil. A good tin of fish, served with the right flourish, feels positively luxurious.
Some evenings, apéro is little more than a small bowl of crisps or spiced nuts, a few nubbins of Parmigiano Reggiano, and a scattering of hand-sliced salumi. It doesn’t have to be elaborate; the point is ease, not effort. You’re building an appetite, not a meal.
My freezer is a quiet ally when apéro hour rolls around. Whenever I have a spoonful or two of leftover curry or braise, I tuck it away to later wrap in pastry and bake off into mini hand pies — little empanada-style bites ready for impromptu guests or solo snacking.
Beef rendang curry puffs served with lime pickle have been a recent hit, as have cassoulet hand pies that make late Sunday afternoon feel special. Bought shortcrust pastry works perfectly well, though I often keep a stash of cream cheese pastry for days when I feel like showing off.
Apéro doesn’t even have to involve alcohol. A verjuice and soda spritz, tonic water with lime leaf, or grapefruit juice in a wine glass all hit the same note. It’s less about the drink and more about the pause, the exhale, and the signal that the day is done. The best apéro moments aren’t necessarily the most polished ones. They’re when conversation drifts easily, when someone’s laughter fills the space, when you realise you’ve been perched in the same spot far longer than you meant to.
So here’s to apéro hour — not a meal, not an afterthought, but a celebration of the small things done well. A drink that feels earned. A snack that sparks conversation. A reminder that joy often lives in the in-between.
Here’s to apéro hour — not a meal, not an afterthought, but a celebration of the small things done well. A drink that feels earned. A snack that sparks conversation. A reminder that joy often lives in the in-between.
If I had to name one habit that makes the biggest difference in how I cook, it wouldn’t be knife skills, fancy equipment, or even the quality of the ingredients. It would be this: tasting as I go.
There’s a school of thought that treats recipes as sacred texts — immutable, untouchable, to be followed exactly lest your dinner collapse in shame. I am not enrolled at that school. I transferred long ago to the far more chaotic (and frankly more fun) institution of Recipes as Templates.