You can tell I’m in a cooking rut if you visit my kitchen at 5pm on any given weekday and find us all dining on salami and apples, a handful of walnuts straight from the bag. It’s my unofficial back-up meal, swooping in to save the eve for my other unofficial back-up meal (breakfast for
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 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
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
I’ve been trying not to shoo her out of the kitchen. I’ve been trying to see meal prep as a learning experience, as an opportunity to teach her the beauty of nourishing others – both their hearts and their bellies. But then I glance at her hair in the egg yolk and see the raw
Sometimes, when you find yourself in San Francisco, you take a cooking class. You saddle up to a countertop with gals who have never cooked, who only cook on weekends, who cook for therapy, who cook for fun. And you all dig your hands into an oversized metal bowl and alas, something is shared. Our