Blueberry Breakfast Cake. Say that five times fast. I love alliteration. Almost as much as I love breakfast. And cake. And blueberry. So, when it came time to figure out what to do with some leftover summer blueberries, I decided to turn them into this iteration of a coffee cake in blueberry form. My friend Heather Hardison sent me her new book Homegrown: Illustrated Bites just before the craze of summer and our move hit. I dog-eared her Breakfast Blueberry Cake right away. Read more
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
Sun-kissed cheeks. Chalk-laced hands. Overgrown grass. The greenest of greens and the bluest of blues. Grill-charred chicken. Watermelon wedges. Paper plates. Impromptu dinners. Sprinklers. Thunderstorms. Skinned knees. Fireflies. Mosquito bites. Aloe vera. Light-hearted living. Late night sunsets. Water-beaded glasses. Cocktails on the porch. Cheers with your neighbors. Summer, I love you. Read more
We are settled! In a house that I plan to breathe my last breath in. Just like the last day of high school, college, etc, I thought this day would never come. In the summer of 2008, Kev started graduate school. I started this blog soon thereafter. We lived 4 semi-settled years in Chicago, knowing we’d most likely move come internship time. And that we did. In 2012, we hauled our belongings to the east coast where we spent two years completing his internship and post-doctoral work. We loved our time in Connecticut, but it didn’t quite feel like home. In 2014, we trekked back to the midwest with a cute 9-month in tow and plans to build a house in Minneapolis. We parked ourselves in a tiny apartment just outside the Twin Cities and began the never-ending process of building a house. Like all things, it came to an end. And here we are! Settled, minus all the boxes in the basement and frames lining the walls, with a margarita in hand. Well, one of us is. Read more
“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
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
