There’s fresh garland running down the stairs. It smells like cedar and pine. The fire is roaring, and the ground is covered by a thick layer of fluffy snow. The cacophony of shovels against the concrete is music to my ears. It’s my favorite time of year besides the craze, high expectations, and excess of Christmas. The start of winter makes me feel alive, and Christmas gives me the hives. Read more
We’ve come to that point in our relationship where you’re either going to think I’m super cool or just plain lazy. Or maybe both. Lately, Kev’s been asking where are all those pasta bakes that I used to make. As if I’ve stuffed them into a box misplaced in the basement. “By the time I cook the noodles and make the sauce,” I said, “we might as well eat dinner rather than throwing it into another dish to bake even longer, another dish I have to clean. Also, have you heard her pre-dinner toddler grump?” But that got me thinking—I wonder if we can skip the whole boil-the-pasta part? If so, that might just give his beloved pasta bake a fighting chance around here. Read more
I have a friend in Minnesota. The best treats come out of her kitchen. She and her family welcomed us warmly when we moved here (with pastries of course). She sent Hal a handmade doll before she ever entered the world. She writes a blog too. A stroll through it is like one long cathartic exhale—from her words to her images to the thoughtful excerpts. You probably know her too. Sarah from The Vanilla Bean Blog. Read more
It’s pronounced Po-sol-eh, though Kev leaves off the “eh” for reasons unknown. It comes in red, white, or green. I had my first bowl a couple years ago at Chipotle, so the authenticity may be questionable. This soup, spotted with hominy, is commonly served in Mexico as a celebratory dish. And since the next two months are filled with celebrations (especially in the red, white, and green color palette), I thought I’d shake up the traditional celebratory fare at this house. Because we’re staying home for the holidays. And that might be the bigger shakeup. Read more
I started baking in high school. But I really started baking after getting that pink bible of a King Arthur Flour Whole Grain Baking Book in college. I made my first galette, trifle, and rock hard rolls from that book. Rock hard because I used boiling water, like a true novice, to activate my yeast (112° seems like boiling water when you grow up under the Texas heat). My mom still buys an extra set of rolls during the holidays as a backup to mine. That was 10 years ago. Read more
We drive fast because we’re late. Getting out the door is an olympic event. We swerve because they scream. A dropped blanket or … just because. We wear our hair in a top bun because effective hairdryers are just too loud. We button our jeans higher because our hips have dropped lower. And we fail at dinner because it’s been moved from 8:30 to 5:30 with one new rule. You must tie one or both hands behind your back. Sometimes motherhood makes us look about as cool as mom jeans. Read more
I slathered the first year of motherhood with nutella. (There’s proof of that right here.) It needed it—for both the protein and the indulgence. If there had been enough time to go to the doctor, they would have diagnosed me with a deficit of both and prescribed a jar of nutella. So a slather a day it was. I’m exaggerating only slightly. Read more
I know, I know. I keep writing about it—the surprise factor of dinner. Or maybe I keep talking about it every other post on Instagram. We’re getting to that point in our relationship when I can’t remember what I’ve told you. But every day come 5, I’m shocked that it’s dinner time. Again. Didn’t I just finish cleaning last night’s dishes? I’ve tried meal planning, but since it’s not a permanent fixture in my calendar, it only takes a week or two to lose steam. And thinking about the whole week in advance gives me hives. I’m a one-day-at-a-time girl, which works quite well until 5:00 pm. Read more
