We’re a snackin’ family, is all. Pre-parenthood, my visions of mealtime were saccharine at best. Small heads gathered around a table, small hands folded in prayer. Three courses at the ready, three times daily. We’d pass bread. We’d bless the cook. It is this, on rare occasions, but mostly it is not. Mostly it is
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
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
Last week, my best friend from high school came for a visit and brought her family along. We hadn’t seen each other in oh, four years? And another four before that? But time melted away the months and in mere minutes flat, her kids and my own are stacking pillows at the foot of the
I’m a sauce girl, through and through. Take me to a fancy restaurant and I’m oft-tempted to order the kids’ chicken fingers as a means of tasting every condiment imaginable. Chipotle mayo? Extra, please. Your pumpkin ketchup? Yes a million. Aioli anything? 100%. Thus, marinades. I don’t use marinades as marinades in that I don’t
Bee and Ken took a quick trip to Florida last week, and upon returning, I asked her what her favorite part of the trip was. The mid-day ocean frolics? The spotting of a sand dollar? Sunsets with Grandma? The airplane snacks! she says with certainty before launching into a full-on recitation of the contents/flavors/exactness of