Honey Soy Roasted Chickpeas | @thefauxmartha

It started to show itself in the way I kept my hair. Or didn’t. In high school and college I washed, dried, and straightened my hair daily. It was a thing of beauty. Well kept. Perfectly in place. With no sign of unruly wave, even under all those thick, thick layers. It was a good representation of how I saw myself. Of how I saw the world. I was a straight-laced rule follower. My perspective looked a lot like the scenery of The Giver. Things were orderly. Things were black and white. So black and white. Read more

Italian Summer Salad | @thefauxmartha

There was an Italian market right around the corner from where we lived in New Haven. They sold overpriced produce and served the best sandwiches and salads I’ve ever had. Prior to frequenting there, I’d never been extremely fond of ordering a sandwich or salad out, especially when given a choice. When in New Haven, you eat pizza. But this place and their pesto sandwiches and italian salads, they changed my mind forever. Read more

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

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

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

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

Sun-dried Tomato Dressing | @thefauxmartha

Who first believed in you? Family members don’t count. For me, it was Mr. Serie. He was my 8th grade art teacher. Art was a 6-week elective then. Or was it 12-weeks? I can’t remember. But despite all my goofing off in the class, he pulled me aside and told me I was good at art. He didn’t have to do that. And I probably wasn’t all that good. But I went on to paint lots of pictures, take lots of art classes, and major in graphic design. All because Mr. Serie told me I was good at something. Words are powerful. Read more

“Be somebody who makes everybody feel like a somebody.” —Kid President

I need to tattoo this to the inside of my hand. Most days I’m just making sure I feel like a somebody. We have two mirrors in our tiny apartment—one that’s covered in so much dust I don’t have to worry about the reflection as I pass. The other, in the bathroom, I quickly skirt by until the end of the day. That’s when I usually catch a glimpse of the disheveled person walking by. Read more