This time last year we were driving up the coast of Connecticut, Massachusetts, and Maine on a babymoon thinking parenthood can’t possibly be as hard as they say. My, my, my how different a year can look. Read more
I debated—do I update the Salted Nutella Latte recipe that sparked this search for a Nutella Syrup and run the risk of you not seeing it, or do I give it the spotlight it deserves with a new post? The decision was an easy one—make sure no one misses this recipe. The original latte recipe, which I’ll leave intact, calls for heating milk and Nutella in the microwave until combined, then adding/making simple syrup. It’s a bit cumbersome (and unfit for an iced version) but when Nutella is involved, one will go to great lengths. I have good news and bad news friends: I’ve removed the great lengths part. Read more
It feels like spring! Even if only for a couple days. The first batch of ice cream of the season has been churned. And since been blended into a cookies and cream milkshake. My skin is wrinkling at the corner of my eyes and my lips are stretched far across my face. Ahhh, it’s getting warmer outside! I’m all smiles. Since things are heating up around here, it’s time to do some celebrating with a giveaway. Read more
Have you heard a heart beat before? Sometimes I like to sit and watch the vein pulse on my husband’s neck. It’s rhythmic. It’s comforting. It’s my favorite feeling.
My sister and I came home this weekend. She’s in school to become a Physician Assistant. She pulled out her stethoscope, and we started listening. To my heart. It beats slow and steady. To her heart. Slightly faster than mine. To my mom’s heart. It’s even faster with a gurgle. She has Mitral Valve Prolapse. Read more
I’m standing in a fog. The windows are translucent. I can’t see my next step. Although I know it’s infront of me based on experience. But if I quit moving forward, I’ll soon be paralyzed. With muscles atrophied from lack of use.
Fear. Decisions. Change. Deadlines. They can do that to you. Make you stop dead in your tracks. Whisper little lies of inadequacy. They’re like speed bumps. In the fog. Reminding you that the road is rough. And it’s far from perfect. Read more
My mom is the first to say she doesn’t like to bake. I’m still not sure where my
love obsession came from. Somehow my sister picked up the habit too—proof. But despite my mom’s distaste for baking, she makes a mean cobbler. In the summers it’s filled with the ripest of peaches. And through the winters it’s filled with the blackest of blackberries. Always topped with ice cream of course. This tastes like home to me. Read more