I don’t think it’ll come as a surprise to you when I say I love good design. It makes my heart flutter and my mind wonder. Good design always comes with a gentle nudge to keep creating, to try something different. I never thought that nudge could come in the form of toast with egg salad on top. Read more
We first had Swedish Pancakes during our initial visit to Minnesota, the second home of Swedish Pancakes. We landed in a blizzard to yards piled with at least 3 feet of standing snow. The tops of the snow banks touched the base of most first floor windows. We still decided to move there (and haven’t had a winter like it since). I think it was the Swedish Pancakes. But most likely, it was breakfast at Sarah’s house the morning prior that sealed the deal. Either way, Swedish Pancakes seemed to play an important role, too. Read more
I didn’t know I’d lost a piece of myself until I joined Snapchat. “It’s too unedited.” That’s what I told Kev prior. It wasn’t until my 11th post in, the post where I finally mustered enough courage to record myself talking, that I said in a sing-songy voice, “Unstyled salad. This is so liberating!” I’ve continued to over-snap unedited bits of life since—the normal parts that seem too unworthy for Instagram or even this space. (See giveaway details below.) Read more
One Saturday morning, Kev brought home a savory Cheddar Bacon Scones from the bakery down the street. I must have scowled. “Savory Cheddar Bacon Scones? Were they all out of the sweet rolls?” I asked. I’m not a huge fan of bacon, or cheddar, and I take my scones sweet. Sometimes you say just as much by what you don’t say. And I’ve never said bacon before on this site, and probably never said “cheddar bacon scones” in the same sentence. I’ve also never said eggs benedict. Or meatloaf. Or hotdogs. Or goat cheese. Or shrimp. Or oysters. Or beer, unless it has to do with beer bread. I’m down with beer bread. “How do you have a food blog?” they say. And then I remind them of the hiring process, or the lack thereof. Read more
This is not Mike’s Hard Lemonade. It’s Mel’s Hard Lemonade. It’s been making an appearance at 5:00 for some time now. With a smooth, round lemon flavor served in a wine glass, not a beer bottle, it’s elegant and classy and quick. Along with a glass, you’ll reach for your brimmed hat, linen pants, and wicker picnic basket. Or maybe you’ll just reach for the wooden spoon to stir together dinner. I usually (always) do the latter. At 5:00. Read more
I couldn’t put it all into words until I looked outside the window of Hal’s room. It was a perfectly dull grey day. Rain was marching monotonously from the downspout right outside the window over her dollhouse. It was spring break. No preschool. The hours felt exceedingly long. We were supposed to be on our way to Costco, the only thing I had planned for the day. Hal was using my legs as a slide with her purple owl in her lap. My legs aren’t long. They’re worse than short. She must have slid 1000 times before she used them briefly as a pillow then back to sliding. My face, it was planted firmly into my phone. Read more
I’ve never been a huge macaroon fan. Not to be confused with the french confection, macarons—the tiny footed, usually bright, meringues held together by a pastry cream or jam. I’ve never had a problem eating those. A couple weeks ago, the co-op was sampling lemon poppyseed macaroons (with two Os). I grabbed a bite of one at the tail end of my trip. I was pleasantly surprised with the lemon poppyseed macaroon flavor when I found myself nestled into the check-out line, too late to go back and grab one. But, these little lemon poppyseed macaroon morsels piqued my interest enough to think about a recipe of my own. Read more
Sometimes I catch myself under the glassy glow of the strung lights, in wide open space, sitting at a table at least a mile long. We’re eating vegetables that I grew and canned last season. It’s dusk. The wind doesn’t blow here. Our steps are deliberate and the place settings are perfectly imperfect. The linens have been pressed and the food never grows cold. That’s when I trip over a booby trap, a little landmine Hallie set up before nap time. Expletive. I nearly drop my phone, losing my place on my Instagram feed—where the daydream started. Read more
