As it stands, I’m not much for honey. But you know what I am one for? Honey-whipped cream, in a cold metal bowl fresh for the whisking. Taking turns getting elbow cramps with a daughter, both faux-complaining, knowing all the well we’re better for the wait.
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
My day is much the same as yours, I’d imagine. There are windows of time in which I am remarkably present, refilling my water glass, passing the raisins, lost in a riveting conversation with Bee about small intestines, sharks, small intestines in sharks. And then there are the other times. Windows of time that feel
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