Big Batch Apricot Muesli | @thefauxmartha

“Thank you.” Tears began welling just above the lower lid of my eyes as we handed the bag of muesli to her. Today was the last day of “school” for Hallie. We made a mega batch of muesli that not every bowl, stock pot, or container in our kitchen could hold. It was our way of saying thank you. But that bag of oats and apricots would never ever touch the deep, deep sentiment we felt in our hearts. I don’t say thank you much, or enough. In fact, I can’t tell you the last time I wrote a thank you card. It’s embarrassing. I never expect it myself, and when it’s given to me, I awkwardly change the subject.  Read more

post-diver

Friday Night Fajitas | @thefauxmartha

I’m pretty sure it was the fajitas that kept us dating so long. On Friday nights in high school, I’d head over to my then boyfriend’s house. His mom made better-than-restaurant fajitas and topped them with white cheese. We only had orange cheese at my house, so this was a luxury. One night while eating fajitas, his dad told me that he’d like to give me their nice pots and pans when we got married. I was 16. My love of food was present at birth, but I hadn’t yet discovered an interest in cooking it. I awkwardly sloughed off his comment with a laugh. My high school boyfriend and I broke up and got back together a hundred times. I think it was because of the Friday night fajitas. Read more

post-diver

BBQ Black Bean Nachos | @thefauxmartha

There was a time in my life when I deleted pizza and nachos from my diet. Cheese is bad for you, they said. I ate my ice cream with too few of calories. My eggs with no yolks. And bought low-fat butter that was mostly hydrogenated oil. It was as awful as it sounds. But I stuck with it long enough to learn that my issue wasn’t solely what I was eating, rather how much I was eating. (You can read way too much about my food history here.) Pizza, full-fat ice cream, whole eggs, and real butter have been apart of my diet for many years now. But it wasn’t until a couple weeks ago that I allowed nachos back into my life. Read more

post-diver

Waffles, Yogurt, and Preserves | @thefauxmartha

We lived on the east coast for two short years while Kev completed his internship and post-doc work. We don’t fall under the adventurous category, but we made good use of our time driving up and down the coast—from Camden, Maine to St. Michaels, Maryland (where some of my extended family calls home). That’s 600 miles of very trafficked roads if you’re doing the math. Tucked between every other road trip, we found ourselves on the train to New York City—a city that stole my husband’s Oklahoma-born heart. Five months pregnant and celebrating Mother’s Day (though I didn’t feel like much of one yet), he walked and I waddled into a charming little spot called Tipsy Parson. That’s where I had the best waffle of my life. Read more

post-diver

A Pasta Dish for Busy Hands | @thefauxmartha

You know her as Naturally Ella. I know her as Erin, my business partner, my friend, the person I talk with most these days. Hallie knows her as “Enin!”. She hasn’t found her Rs yet. She also knows her as the author of The Easy Vegetarian Kitchen—the book she affectionately wrote notes in while her father wasn’t looking. The book that makes her new favorite meal—fried rice. In a few short weeks, one lucky little boy will know her as mama. Erin is having a baby (!), which is cause for a celebration sans wine. So a bunch of lovely people have gathered via the WWW to send Erin off into motherhood with quick and easy vegetarian recipes.  Read more

post-diver

Strawberry Puff Pastry Bites  | @thefuaxmartha

At one of my final appointments before having Hallie, my doctor asked if I worked. I told her that I work from home designing blogs and writing one myself. She then asked if I had adequate childcare lined up. “Well…me,” I replied. She snickered and told me to line up extra care stat. She also told me how to up my dessert game with a newborn. Her secret: puff pastry. Read more

post-diver

Carrot Cake Baked Oatmeal | @thefauxmartha

I didn’t go to school to study it. I’m guessing you didn’t either. (On the off chance that you did and can somehow still tolerate this space, I apologize for all the cringe-worthy sentence structures.) Yet somehow we’re all editors. I guess we’ve always been editors to a degree—choosing what we share and what we don’t. But now it’s forever stained into the internet—into your blog, your Instagram feed, and Facebook wall. It’s neatly housed in one space—to be read, to be enjoyed, to be critiqued as a body of work reflecting your life. Read more

post-diver

Sun-dried Tomato Bowl | @thefauxmartha

It’s rhythmic. It’s predictable. Seven days a week, it’s the same song streaming in the background. As much as I want to hate it, I love it. Let’s be honest, I crave it. She craves it too. Hallie’s little 1-year-old body, always in search of a new adventure, craves the rhythm of everything else. The rhythm of breakfast, lunch, and dinnertime. Of naptime, though we can’t seem to hold a decent beat here. Of school time and bath time. The rhythm informs. It lets us know where we are and what’s coming next. The rhythm is a schedule begging to be filled in. Read more

post-diver