Growing up in Texas, we learned about fall, winter, and spring from textbooks and encyclopedias. A feed full of changing leaves on Instagram wasn’t a thing then, and connecting to the internet was about like dialing the man on the moon. I always thought the spelling of seasons was a mistake. It’s season. My pen pals from other countries thought we traveled by horse. Come to find out, we lived in the same country and it wasn’t called Texas. I now joke that Texans have a hard time believing in climate change because the climate never changes. I’m kidding. Kinda. Read more
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
If ever there’s ever a s’mores dessert on a menu, I’m quick to order it. We’ve ordered a slice of s’mores tart on two separate occasions recently. And on both occasions, I bookmarked the idea for later. But it was the time it took to make marshmallows that put a halt in my home-made idea. And then I found myself with a surplus of egg whites in the fridge, an unopened box of graham crackers, a brick of chocolate, an extra 20 minutes, and a better idea. Read more
I had this whole post written about marriage. About how easy it was before we were parents. So easy we high-fived ourselves. And about how hard it’s been since becoming parents. It was about how this Balsamic Pasta (with a salad on top) saved us. A recipe I recreated from a dish we ordered on a much needed date night a couple months ago. I deleted it. Because I got to the end and realized it wasn’t the pasta dish, though so good and quick. You need to make it. It was the ping pong table from Craigslist that saved us.
There were missed deadlines. Lots of flights and late bed times. Family gatherings. Dancing (if you can qualify our erratic movements as such). There were hamburgers, chips, and watermelon. Mouthfuls of salty water. Tiny feet splashing in waves. And wine. Plenty of wine. We lived this summer. So much so, I think our new neighbors thought this was our winter home, which is funny because we live in Minnesota. You don’t dare leave the state come summer. TSA enforced. Read more
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
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
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