In another life, I’d like to have a baked donut truck. Freshly roasted baked pumpkin donuts and baked apple cider donuts would make up our entire fall line-up. We’d close with the exit of the last donut. I’m not sure what name we’d plaster to the side of the donut truck, but our tagline would be: always baked, never fried. We’d disclose that these baked pumpkin donuts were built with wheat flour and partially sweetened with honey. Though they wouldn’t believe us. These are the things of my daydreams. Read more
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
A couple weeks ago when it was still warm enough to make you sweat, we stopped by a lemonade stand on the corner of the street. We chatted with and met new neighbors. I was juggling a cup of lemonade and a nap-ready, wiggly baby while trying to keep four new names straight. (I’m abnormally good with faces but adversely awful with names.) A homeless woman walked up, put her change down on the table without hesitation, and walked away with a cup of lemonade in hand and a smile on her face. My mind was a thousand different places, but present enough to absorb that brief moment.
In his hurriedness to get off to work, I noticed Kev took the time to throw away my used coffee filter hanging off the side of the Chemex. Meanwhile, I sat at the dining room table, drinking the cup of coffee that filter had produced. It was a rare glimpse. I’m usually the one in the kitchen or on the floor corralling the babe. Thank you, I said. He said you’re welcome like it was no big deal, like he does it all the time. I often throw it away, he said. I paused, took another sip, and tried to remember the last time I threw it away. Thank you, I said again. Read more
I’d make these pumpkin scones once a week if my hips could lie. I never really thought to put pumpkin into a scone. But then again, I don’t think about a lot of things. My soon-to-be-neighbor Lucy asked how I come up with recipes. I told her I wish I could attribute it to my brilliantly creative mind. But alas, my mind is neither brilliant or creative when it comes to recipes. I’m kind of a Plain Jane when it comes to food. These pumpkin scones might be the exception. Read more
Crisp temperatures. Cozy couches. Comfort food. Lazy weekends. Sideways sun. Mug filled hands. Red tipped noses. Chunky knit socks. Blue faded jeans. Apple cider donuts. Wood crackling bonfires. She’s back in full force. Hi, Autumn.
Let me start out by saying—put down your dukes. Have you read the news? This is a heated subject—Pumpkin Spice Lattes. Put out your hand. Mine’s out too. Let’s shake. We’re all still friends here no matter how we take, or don’t take, the PSL. Agreed? Agreed. I’ve been using my mom voice a lot lately. It’s weirding me out too.
When my grandparents came to visit as a kid, they’d always sleep in my room. I wouldn’t let my mom take the sheets off after they left. Their smell. I wanted it to last, and the sheets seemed to hold it the longest. I’d cry when it no longer smelled like them but rather me. Read more