Luke Dempsey

It's complicated, but Philip Larkin has the last word.

You say cookie, we say biscuit; you say plastic wrap, we say cling film; you say sponge and mean the thing you clean with, and we mean a lovely cake. The differences between American English and British (aka proper) English are myriad — and if you’re planning to tune in to season three of the Great British Baking Show (which airs on PBS tonight), it’s worth brushing up on a few key words and phrases. A rolled, frozen dessert made from ice cream and sponge cake.

When you’re burning the midnight oil and your stomach starts to grumble, what should you reach for to fuel you through the night? We decided to go directly to the source. We mean writers, of course. After all, who knows better the pain and pleasure of the midnight munchies than the literary set? This month, we asked 20 authors, past and present, to share what they snack on in the wee hours.

When you’re burning the midnight oil and your stomach starts to grumble, what should you reach for to fuel you through the night? We decided to go directly to the source. We mean writers, of course. After all, who knows better the pain and pleasure of the midnight munchies than the literary set? This month, we asked 20 authors, past and present, to share what they snack on in the wee hours.

When you’re burning the midnight oil and your stomach starts to grumble, what should you reach for to fuel you through the night? We decided to go directly to the source. We mean writers, of course. After all, who knows better the pain and pleasure of the midnight munchies than the literary set? This month, we asked 20 authors, past and present, to share what they snack on in the wee hours. Hunter S.

When you’re burning the midnight oil and your stomach starts to grumble, what should you reach for to fuel you through the night? We decided to go directly to the source. We mean writers, of course. After all, who knows better the pain and pleasure of the midnight munchies than the literary set? This month, we asked 20 authors, past and present, to share what they snack on in the wee hours.

When you’re burning the midnight oil and your stomach starts to grumble, what should you reach for to fuel you through the night? We decided to go directly to the source. We mean writers, of course. After all, who knows better the pain and pleasure of the midnight munchies than the literary set? This month, we asked 20 authors, past and present, to share what they snack on in the wee hours. Mary Frances Kennedy Fisher was the four-star food writer of the 20th century.

I was born in late November in the late 1960s in England. It is, in many ways, a wonderful place (thank you for Great British Bake Off, Stephen Fry, and The Smiths). But it is a country that doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving. So, when I met an American woman in an Irish bar in 1994, I didn’t know anything about the holiday.

It’s that time of year: the nights are getting darker earlier, the temperatures are dropping, and Oktoberfest is happening at a bar near you. On one such recent evening, I was joined at a German-themed bar, Loreley, in New York’s Lower East Side, by Alex Gallafent, a British friend (whose latest one-man show, The Dilletante, will be performed on November 20 at the PIT Loft in New York).

As an Englishman living in New York, I confess to being befuddled, if not outright outraged, by the obsession with bagels. Regular bagels, everything bagels, rainbow bagels, Canadians bagels — enough! Can we get over the bagel please? Here are five reasons — actually, there are many more than five, but life’s implacable clock ticks on — why the English muffin is vastly superior to the bagel. Bagels have holes in them. You know this already.

With Memorial Day behind us, the season of the picnic has arrived. From now through Labor Day, most of us will at some point decide to pack up a meal in a hamper or a cooler, head out to a park or a beach or a forest, lay out a blanket, and enjoy our meal en plein air. What is it about picnics that makes perfectly mono-lingual people speak French? And why is it that picnics are so enduringly appealing?

Back in England, I was the friend of a guy whose father was a rich sort. Posh père belonged to a single-malt society and — if he was feeling generous, which was, fortunately, always — used to share his latest “off-cut” bottles with his son and me.