Head’s up: Sponsored by Walmart.com. And so it goes: another season whirring by, another set of feet having outgrown his footed pajamas. I take the kitchen scissors and snip off the toe seams so his feet can stretch through; watch two tiny strips of rockets fall to the floor. Scout will be 2 this summer
Head’s Up: Sponsored By Nature’s Way I have heard it stated this way, simplified: Work. Relationships. Wellness. Pick two. But I prefer David Sedaris’ version of four burners, retold in an old (beautiful) piece for New Yorker. That our lives are a stovetop of simmering pots – friends, family, health and work. That to be
Listen. I don’t claim to know a thing or two about cooking or baking or sauteeing, about chiffonade techniques or a parboil. If you point me in the direction of a culinary kitchen, I will be unable to name approximately 84% of the available trappings. Basting and barding and blanching? Foreign languages. But food placing?
I don’t know what came over me exactly. I just know that, somewhere in the nostalgic depths of my mind, there is an image of an aproned mother in pearls and lipstick pulling a loaf of homemade, freshly-risen, flour-dusted bread straight out of the kitchen oven. My mother didn’t bake bread. I don’t even think
I grew up as far away from the kitchen as possible, knowing full well there was likely to be a mother stirring a skillet of Tuna Helper in need of someone to set the table (kids are the worst, man). And so, without a solid memory bank of practice, my food knowledge and stovetop creativity
Sponsored by Delta® Faucet If you watched this video, you’ll know the term ‘recipe’ is a bit loose here. My friend Dan is a natural chef, choosing to follow his instincts over ingredients, and me? Well, I suppose I have a hard time following either when it comes to the kitchen. Still, we’ve nailed down a
Sponsored by Delta® Faucet I cannot categorically, nor in good faith, call myself a chef. I cook things. I stir things. I char (burn) things. I know, mostly, when to use a spatula and when to pick up the tongs, and when all else fails, I can slather half an avocado onto charred (burnt) toast
When I was (very) pregnant, my friend Asha bestowed on me the most wonderful gift. It wasn’t baby shoes or swaddle blankets, or the latest calming belly balm, highly unlikely to calm/balm anything at all. Instead, it was this: Asha taught me how to feed my family. Her email: When the schedule balance tips toward