Grain-Free Banana Blueberry Bundt Cake with Oranges

Here we go again. I’ve allowed my counter top to turn into a banana graveyard. My husband hates this. Mostly because, banana pranks. But, lucky for him, I’m kind of a wizard when it comes to using these mushy brown spotted naners.

If I was writing an important short bio, it might look like this:

Gina is a hard worker and first class worrier, living in the SF Bay Area. She has a complicated relationship with natural deodorant, and on occasion will transform the menagerie of rotting bananas on her counter into a mothertrucking cake. She likes jazz, as long as it isn’t too smooth, and kisses her dog on the mouth. She’s married to a man who likes sandwiches, and tends to fall asleep in his “nook”–the swoopy part along his side that is neither underarm nor lap. She does not excel at jumping rope or reading maps, but makes up for these short comings with questionable charisma.

Does this sound professional? In fact, the next time I’m published in a magazine I might just submit that to go along with it. Special skills are important to list. Plus, everyone likes it when you talk about your husband’s swoopy non-armpit parts. Not uncomfortable. […]

Grain-Free Spring Harvest Quiche with Sausage, Sun Dried Tomatoes & Goat Cheese

There are defining moments in life where you’re forced to examine what makes you different. For me, one of these moments centered around a hot dog. It was a sunny afternoon in ’94, and a friend of mine had come over for a play date. We were hungry, so my mom suggested some snacks. One of the things on the list was “a cold hot dog”. This didn’t strike me as particularly alarming, as I had been eating hot dogs in various states of cooked-ness for as long as I could remember. It wasn’t uncommon to grab a cold one right from the package and eat it with my hands like it was a hydrated Slim Jim. I grew up in a Hawaiian family, and this was normal. Other ways to eat hot dogs included: in a sandwich, fried in a pan, with Pork n’ Beans, and of course, with eggs. […]

Roasted Kale Sprouts, Apricots & Bacon

It’s a sweaty August afternoon. And, yeah. You guessed it. I’m sweating.

I’m sitting here writing to you with an aggressive amount of coconut oil in my hair, dishes in my sink, and wearing last night’s pajamas. I really overshot things in the attempt to give my recently colored hair a much needed coconut oil moisture mask. Like, I can feel oil dripping down the sides of my face, and maybe down my back. I’ve tucked paper towels into the front of my sports bra in order to make a bib to catch the drippings. This is real life, my friends. This is real life. At any moment I could be mauled with an enthusiastic Golden Retriever tongue bath. Emma likes coconut oil a lot… so, I’m trying to type quietly as not to wake her from her power nap. My hair could become her afternoon snack. So, shhhhh. She’s dreaming little doggy dreams, her legs moving wildly trying to chase things. I wonder if she smells the oil. I wonder if she’s chasing me. Yikes! […]

Grain-Free Ginger Cherry Berry Scones

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself sulking outside of a local bakery. This isn’t a gluten-free bakery, but they do make a fantastic gluten-free scone. I arrived too late in the day, and as usual, they were completely sold out. However, my wheat-eating husband bought himself some ridiculous looking apple-stuffed, almond-stuffed, hopes and dreams-stuffed croissant. I was irrationally upset about this situation. I could feel my blood pressure rising as I watched bits of pastry flake off onto his shirt, and tiny bits of apple adhere to his adorable mouth corners. All I wanted was a scone. I briefly considered not eating breakfast at all. How could I? I had been dreaming of that scone for… well, at least the last thirty minutes. I could taste the flaky bits of berry filled dough in my mind. No other breakfast would measure up. I was on a scone only hunger strike. I was quickly becoming an insane person. This happens when hunger sets in. I’m still myself, but the drama is cranked up to eleven, and the tears start to nag at my ducts, begging to be released. It’s as if I’ve melded my physical person with the frenetic emotional instability of Buster Bluth, and the overly emotive face of Oscar The Grouch. If you’re wondering, my husband really loves when this happens (he doesn’t).  May I remind you that all of this is happening OVER A SCONE. Ugh.  […]

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