Tess Daly attends the 2023 BAFTA Television Awards with P&O Cruises at The Royal Festival Hall on May 14, 2023 in London, England.

Learn about newborn care, including breastfeeding, baby health, safety, childcare, clothes, diapering, sleep and more from the editors of Parents magazine.

Tess, 32, took to Instagram on Thursday to share photos from her new campaign with Alpine Butterfly, as well as a throwback picture of herself when she was just 14 years old.

I've always loved how marzipan works for roses. I haven't always liked the price for marzipan though. In culinary school I'd save...

Strictly's Tess Daly and Claudia Winkleman got into the Blackpool mood on Saturday as they prepared to celebrate the iconic Tower Ballroom from the comfort of Elstree studios in Hertfordshire

This is another in the summer jewel kanten experiments. Blueberries are so lovely eaten out of hand that one could say that making this dessert is superfluous. But it is pretty.

Explore Tess Smith-Roberts' 969 photos on Flickr!

Many teens outshine their peers but Tess has the rest beat by a mile. In Chaysing Dreams by Jalpa Williby, Tess enjoys success, popularity, and a loving family in spite of being plagued by nightmares and recurring visions of a dark cloud. Over the course of almost 10 years, Tess excels at sports and academics but never forgets the young man she met on her 16th birthday. As she faces some of life's toughest challenges, it is apparent that Tess has special abilities and a guardian angel who comes to her rescue at just the right times. Even with the support of her two best friends and a loving dog, Tess struggles to overcome a devastating loss. Learning to follow her instincts and trust her intuition, Tess moves forward and discovers love but at a terrible cost. Surprising abilities, a connection to a mysterious guardian, and the devotion of an exceptional dog help Tess succeed in everything she does except for understanding and escaping the nightmares and dark visions that plague her throughout her life. Cryptic messages from her parents, the support of a loving aunt and friends and the protection provided by an elusive character lead Tess onward to discover her true identity and purpose in life only to realize that the more she knows, the more she needs to learn. In this wonderful debut novel, Jalpa Williby creates a story full of questions and surprises embedded in the fabric of an adolescence and young adulthood that is something more than typical. Excellent job! A great story with unique characteristics.

“A writer to be reckoned with.” —Kathleen Glasgow, author of Girl in Pieces and You’d Be Home Now A heartbreaking, hopeful, and timely novel about facing family secrets, healing from trauma, and falling in love, from the award-winning author of How It Feels to Float George’s life is loud. On the water, though, with everything hushed above and below, she is steady, silent. Then her estranged dad says he needs to talk, and George’s past begins to wake up, looping around her ankles, trying to drag her under. But there’s no time to sink. George’s best friend, Tess, is about to become, officially, a teen mom, her friend Laz is in despair about the climate crisis, her gramps would literally misplace his teeth if not for her, and her moms fill the house with fuss and chatter. Before long, heat and smoke join the noise as dis­tant wildfires begin to burn. George tries to stay steady. When her father tells her his news and the painful memo­ries roar back to life, George turns to Calliope, the girl who has just cartwheeled into her world and shot it through with colors. And it’s here George would stay—quiet and safe—if she could. But then Tess has her baby, and the earth burns hotter, and the past just will not stay put. A novel about the contours of friendship, family, forgiveness, trauma, and love, and about our hopeless, hopeful world, Helena Fox’s gorgeous follow-up to How It Feels to Float explores the stories we suppress and the stories we speak—and the healing that comes when we voice the things we’ve kept quiet for so long. "Compelling and arresting" —Shelf Awareness (starred review) "Powerful, heart-tugging" —Books+Publishing "As deeply enjoyable as it is reflective . . . sweet and yet emotionally mature" —BCCB "Brilliant" —Utopia State of Mind "A sensitive portrayal of complex PTSD" —Booklist "Lyrical and evocative . . . Vivid" —Kirkus "Heartbreaking yet uplifting and hopeful . . . Highly recommend[ed] —EveryQueer.com Product DetailsISBN-13: 9780593354599 Media Type: Paperback Publisher: Dial Books Publication Date: 03-26-2024 Pages: 400 Age Range: 14 - 17 YearsAbout the Author Helena Fox lives by the ocean on Dharawal Country in Wollongong, Australia. She mentors young writers and runs writing workshops to support mental health. Helena’s debut novel, How It Feels to Float, won the Prime Minister’s Literary Award and Victorian Premier’s Literary Award for Writing for Young Adults in Australia, and was a Kirkus Best Book of the Year and Chicago Public Library Best Book of the Year in the U.S. Helena received her MFA in Creative Writing from Warren Wilson College. She can be found mostly on Instagram at @helenafoxoz, posting pictures of the sea and talking about kindness.Read an Excerpt Read an Excerpt summer, nine   When I was small, almost ten years old, I rowed out with my father to the middle of a lake. It was after midnight—owls prowled, lizards hid, and Mum lay sleeping in the tent beside the water. We’d arrived at the lake in late afternoon, unpacked the car, and set up camp—a big tent for Mum and Dad, a small one of my very own, for me. Mum banged in pegs with a hammer. Dad fluffed around with the fly and guy ropes, swearing. The lake lap-lapped. I clambered over the shoreline, found flat rocks, and skipped them. At dusk, we three stood at the water’s edge. I held Mum’s hand and we looked out at the lake, the mist, the quiet, fading light. Birds squabbled and settled. The dark dropped in. Then Mum cooked sausages on the fire while Dad blew up our inflatable dinghy with a foot pump. After dinner, we turned marshmallows on our sticks, watching the skin bubble and blacken. The flames crackled and licked. I crawled into them, listening for stories. Mum drank her tea. Dad pulled out a beer, hissed the can open. Took a long draw. Mum touched my leg, stirring me. “Time for bed,” she said. I brushed my teeth with bottled water and spat paste onto the dirt. I kissed Mum and Dad good night, crept into my tent, snugged into my sleeping bag, and went to sleep. Dad woke me with a shake. “Georgia!” he whispered. “Let’s go have an adventure!” I could see his glassy eyes, his toothy grin in the dark. I stared at him, confused. I’d been dreaming of apples, of underwater trees? I glanced left, at the canvas wall—just a few steps away was Mum. “Don’t wake her,” Dad said. “Come on!” There was something in his voice, something sparking.Say yes, the spark said. Dad’s eyes glittered. I sat up, shivered out of my bag, and scooted out of the tent. Dad handed me a jacket. We tiptoed like burglars over to where the boat waited. We lifted the dinghy, laid it onto the water, and clambered in. Then Dad pushed us out into the nothing. The lake was inky. Gum trees ghosted the shore. The moon ticked across the sky, and the stars blazed. I looked up. I felt wrapped in it, inside the immensity, the space and silence all around. But I didn’t have the word for that then—immensity—so I said, “It’s really pretty.” Dad beamed. “Isn’t it just?” he said. He rowed us until we were nowhere and everywhere. I dipped my hand into the water, scooped and trickled moonlit drops through my fingers. Dad did too. He rested the oars, leaned over the dinghy side, and looked into the lake. He looked into it so long, maybe the sky fell into the lake and the lake fell into the sky, because then Dad looked like he wanted the lake to eat him up. He said, “Hey, buddy, you can row back, can’t you? Just head for those trees.” And with a plop and a splash, he hopped into the water and swam away. Oh. Dad hadn’t surprised me like this in a while. It had been months of a sort-of calm, a sort-of easy, a sort-of happy. I’d seen Mum kissing Dad in the kitchen and smiling into his eyes, and it had been a long time since she’d done that. But all of Dad was gone now. I could hear him splish-sploshing through the water. I grabbed the oars and tried to follow the sound. The oars knocked my knees, and I lost one. Then I called and called over the solid lump of lake, but the lake didn’t answer and neither did Dad. I tried to row back with one oar. I slipped in dizzy circles and all I could hear then was the oar clunking at the lake like a spoon on an empty bowl:scrape, scrape, scrape. I slumped against the boat side. I would die out here, I knew it. Dad had already drowned. He must have. Lakes could swallow you whole, skies too. I huddled, knees to chin, and cried with the mucky hopelessness of going in circles and waiting to drown, cried over the water and up. My tears clanged the branches of the sorrowful trees and hissed at the stars. When I took a breath, I could hear I wasn’t alone. Mum stood, shouting and screaming, from the shore. summer, eighteen 1 Cool air. Slight breeze and sun, rising. Sydney Harbour lies belly up—made of glisten, glass, and water—and I’m on it, in the kayak Mum and my stepmum Mel gave me for my eighteenth birthday. My body snugs the boat like a seed in its pod. My paddles cut and pull, leaving ripples. Above me, a sea hawk spirals; a gull glides, dipping down, and ahead of me, a duck, flipped over, waggles its feet and rummages the wet for breakfast. The water is polished flat. If I wanted, I could lay my palm on the harbor’s skin and rest it there. No big boats go by this early: no ferries, no sailboats, no water taxis. Nothing on the surface but the sheen of early light, a distant clump of rowers, and here and there, a bird. Below lies everything else: bull-sharks roaming the muddy dark, fish and cans and plastic bags, fallen boats and rusty fishing rods and all the other lost things. Behind me, my house on the peninsula drifts out of sight. Flanked by mansions, the house is old, tin-roofed, and jittery. The windows stick, white paint flecks from the eaves, and the barnacled dock at the end of the yard is slowly sinking into the seabed. The house belongs to Mel—her family has owned it since houses were being built on the peninsula. It hasn’t been smashed or remade yet. Mum, Mel, and my grandfather rattle around the worn house, clacking and pecking at each other. Gramps is eighty-four and always losing something—his teeth, his shirts, his shoes, his pills. He spindles the rooms, circling upstairs, downstairs, shouting. It drives Mel crazy. She’s always saying, “Sara, that man scrambles my mind.” “Tell him, don’t tell me,” Mum always says back. “He’s your dad,” Mel says. “He’s his own person, Mel.” And round and round they go. Life in my house is like one of those black-and-white movies where people run fast through one door and out another. Music jangles; everyone’s limbs jerk and bolt. My best friend Tess said once, “Your house is like a carnival ride, George.” But I confess: Sometimes I sit in my room, there on the top of the higgledy-piggledy house, stare out the window, and dream of quiet. I paddle west and upriver. I sweep past sleepy coves and boat shacks, past rotting piers and rowing clubs, past apartment buildings and fancy gold-brick houses with their gold-brick swimming pools. I pass parks and yachts and slatted rocks. In time, I turn into a bay and pause. I trail one paddle, carving a thin path of bubbles, coasting. A single cloud scooches over the sky, teasing rain. A crow calls from a tree. I rest the paddles across the boat. And breathe. My phone buzzes in the front pocket of my life jacket. It’s a message from my father in Seattle. Georgia, it’s Dad. I have some news. Please call me back. A pulse moves through my body—old, murmuring, like the thrum you feel when tectonic rocks turn over in their sleep. News from Dad could be anything—he’s surprised me before. I don’t like surprises. When did we last speak? My birthday, I think. Dad and I don’t really talk. I flick the message away with my thumb. The sun eases upwards, gathering heat. Trees wave from the park, by the shoreline. The sound ishush-hush, a hellohellohello, a soft listing in the leaves. I have lain on the grass under those trees before. I’ve sketched their twisting

It’s never too late to follow your dream, so long as you have the talent. Alain Bibal was fifty when he received the gift of a Leica M7 camera for his birthday. It changed his life. Now he was able to follow his long-held dream of becoming a rock photographer. “I started very late,” Bibal … Continue reading "Stay Broke, Shoot Film: Alain Bibal’s Iconic Rock Photography"

Make your ancient holiday of Lammas magical with one or more of these fun little ideas. In the Northern Hemisphere, August 1st is the pagan holiday of Lughnasadh, pronounced loo-nah-sa and also kno…

Happy Birthday to my husband ACE! If wandering through the desert and desperate for food...I might eat a cactus. Arizona has very specific native plant laws and it is actually illegal to just go out and fill up your buckets. I found a great article on the prickly pear fruit here that said, "Native plants in Arizona are protected by law and cannot be harvested or moved without a permit from the state's Department of Agriculture. It is illegal to harvest even the fruit from city, county, state, and federal lands or roadways. They can be harvested legally from private property with the written permission of the landowner and the state's $25 permit. The good news is the fruits can be harvested from your own property, without a permit, if they are for personal use." I owe special thanks to my friend Susan for standing next to me and letting me gather the fruit from her own cactus so I could use it to make jam. I guess she figured it was high time for me to get some cactus fruit (aka tuna or tunas in Spanish...if you want the real technical name). I'm not making sushi jam. I will hence forth just call it "the fruit". Feel free to giggle when I type "the fruit" as well. That will make it seem more normal that I didn't want to claim "fish jam" as something I was capable of making. Who was it that first looked at a prickly pear fruit dangling off of a barb re-enforced plant and decided to try to eat it? I don't know...but I do know that cactus jam is one of the single most amazing jams I've ever had privilege to shove in my mouth. Really. They sell it in almost every tourist trap in the state of Arizona because it truly is such an amazing thing to try. Ironically, most of the natives of the state have never made this jam themselves. I for one, was actually okay with not having to process the fruit myself. Not a big fan of touching cactus in general. However, if done right, it can be perfectly safe. It just takes a few precautions. How do you get from the pointy sharp fruit to a luscious jam? It's a pretty interesting process, and one that I have really enjoyed learning how to do. First things first, don't be an idiot. I can say that right? Use your giant brain and know that you can't just go gather these little fruit with your bare hands. Now I've said it. I'm assuming that anyone with half a mind will know not to grab cactus bare handed. Inevitably there will be that "one" who thinks they are a one of the X-men...and have to be macho. I will not be impressed with your red bloody swollen hands. Just saying... Tongs. They're a beautiful thing. You firmly hold the fruit and twist. It comes right off...usually. The big fat red juicy ones are the best. Susan's were very very ripe. Oh my gosh! It was awesome! Even with tongs, I still managed to get a few little spikes in my gorgeous chef hands. Try not to weep. I am fine. (Wait...unless your weeping includes sending me money...in that case I'm horribly disfigured and need very expensive medical attention...) Maybe not. I gathered about fifty of the fruit to make a batch of the jam. Putting them in a metal can was brilliant. Nobody ever got poked by a cactus in a metal can. See...my giant brain is ever thinking of stuff. Yes, it also helps having been married to a safety specialist for fourteen years. There are little spikes at the base of the fruit and a few stragglers on the skins. It is very important at this point (no pun intended) to continue using the tongs. I've seen the fruit juiced for jelly where they don't remove the skin and just make syrup and jelly after removing the spikes. This Processing Prickly Pear Fruit information was most helpful for jelly. However I wanted to use the fruit for jam. I'm not much for jelly...even grape jelly. It's a texture thing. Either way, the spikes need to be removed. I don't know anyone who likes to chew on these: I've seen two methods for removing the spines. One was to soak them in hot water for an hour or so and then use a new toothbrush tho scrub the spines off under running water--and then throw away the toothbrush. I also saw them put over a hot flame with tongs and burned off in a blaze of glory. This is what I went with. It sounded a lot more fun. This method also helped to loosen up the skin, much like what I do for removing the skin on bell peppers...but not as roasted. I don't want smoke flavored jam, so I held them just long enough to burn off the riff raff. I placed the fruit in a metal pot and covered it with a lid for an hour or so. This held in the heat from the roasting and helped steam the skins. This is what the fruit looks like on the inside. It's full of these rock hard seeds. They are seriously like little pebbles. You want them all out of your jam. BEWARE of cactus jam made by your dentist. With a sharp knife, cut off both ends of the fruit and cut it in half. Remove the skin. Now seriously, look at the color of that fruit. It's the most intense magenta I've ever encountered in fruit. Also note that when I was done with the jam...my kitchen looked like an 80's rock video. You've never seen so much hot pink in one kitchen. Minus the multi-zipper pants and the hair gel...this fruit could have been one in Flock of Seagulls. I made the mistake of trying to remove the seeds with my hands at first and had the most amazing purple fingers. Put the seeds in a bowl. They are surrounded by juice that can be used in the jam. The seeds will come out when scraped with a spoon, much like a Roma tomato...but bright neon pink. I put all the fruit in a bowl separate from the seeds. Once the fruit and seeds where separated, I put the seeds in a strainer over the fruit and mashed the additional juice out, squeezing the seeds as needed. Isn't that amazing?! I put the fruit and juice in a food processor for a minute or two until smooth. Then strain again to be sure there really are not any seeds at all. Press the fruit through the strainer with a the back of a spoon. This will make a very smooth jam. Chef Tess' Prickly Pear Jam Makes 10- 8 oz jars 5 cups of prickly pear fruit and juice (from about 50 fruit) 1/2 cup of lemon or lime juice 1/2 tsp ground ginger (optional) 2 boxes of powdered pectin or 2/3 cup UltraGel 7 cups of sugar or 5 cups Raw Sonora Dessert blossom Honey Prepare canning equipment and sterilize jars. Heat prickly pear fruit and juice, lemon juice and sugar or honey in a large heavy bottomed pot. I use an enamel coated cast iron pot. Bring to a rolling boil. Cook for 10 minutes stirring constantly. Sprinkle pectin over fruit mixture. Stir until dissolved. Bring to a boil and cook for 1 minute, stirring constantly. Bring to a rapid boil and cook for 2 minutes, stirring constantly. This jam thickens as it cools, so it will seem pretty loose at this point. Ladle into sterilized jars, leaving 1/4" head space. Wipe rims thoroughly with a sterile cloth. Top with sterile lids. , Tighten cap to finger tightness. Place jars in boiling water bath. Bring to a boil and start your timer. Boil for15 minutes. Remove jars from canner and place on a clean dry towel in a draft free area. Cool for at least 12 hours undisturbed. Refrigerate any jars that did not seal. Now, you have to admit, this is the craziest color for jam you may ever see. Isn't it?! Like reliving 1982 all over again...but in jam form. Jam will gel to a nice thick consistency. There you go!

These homemade Kit Kat brownies are rich, fudgy and stuffed with whole Kit Kats plus even more crumbled on top.

This sweet and tart Raspberry Lemonade is the best way to beat the summer heat! Use fresh or frozen raspberries to make this easy homemade lemonade.

Mandu (Korean dumplings) filled with pork, beef, tofu and vegetables are a family tradition in our house at both the calendar New Year and the Lunar New Year. Dipped in our Cho Jung dipping sauce, you'll love these savory, comforting dumplings as much as we do!