I know that the holidays are in full effect, and that I should probably be posting how to make sugar cookies shaped like reindeer, covered in candy canes and peppermint bark and dipped into eggnog. That would be festive. Also, gross. Note to self: don’t dip overly-candied cookies into eggnog. Or, do. I feel confused. Is there a Christmas professional around who can tell me if this is a good or a bad idea? Also, how many gingerbread cookies crumbled up into a bowl make a good breakfast cereal? I have a lot of questions. But, I digress. Treats. I’ll probably be shoving treats in your face soon, so not to worry. However, this is the kind of food I’ve been crushing on currently. Hard. Like, I’m a twelve year old girl in 1995, and this pan of roasted veggies is on the cover of Tiger Beat right next to JTT. Big-swoony-write its name on my binder kind of crushin’. Practice kissing on your hand before bed kind of crushin’. It’s serious. […]
Growing up is weird, right?
The more grown I get, the more uncertain I am if the term “grown up” is even a real thing. I think, like most young people, I had this false hope that one morning in my late twenties I would awaken with a strong grip on how to do taxes, and the willingness to save money for a new sensible vacuum cleaner. I would be tidier. I’d have cosmically started a retirement account. I would feel a certain maturity. The depth of my wisdom would increase alongside the axis of how strong my prescription glasses needed to be. I would definitely not curse in front of my husband’s boss. And, I probably wouldn’t sign business e-mails with emojis. But, this doesn’t happen. It’s not concrete. I still have the crappy vacuum cleaner I purchased when I was nineteen. I’m wiser, but not above asking Web MD if I am dying when I have a headache. I’m aware that grown up mail is usually just a slew of bills, credit card offers, and an L.L Bean catalog from that time I purchased my husband a fleece. I’m aware that sometimes the child who is working the checkout of a Trader Joes will call me Ma’am and not card me when I purchase wine. And, I’m certainly aware that being a grown up means eating a lot of veggies. […]
In my house, Thanksgiving is all about the stuffing.We’re not talking that sad Stove Top cornbread stuff with mushy pieces of lackluster veggies. We’re talking my Dad’s famous stuffing– the kind of stuffing that is made with savory hunks of Italian sausage, mushrooms, celery, and flavored with an umami bomb of chicken stock, and the brine-y juices leftover in a can of olives. Oh, and butter. All the butter. […]
A few things are happening right now…
For starters, I heard this rumor that fall started. But, as we know from lengthy complaints in previous blog posts, IT’S STILL REALLY HOT OUTSIDE. Like, the sun is trying to kill the earth…or, at least the Californians.
I get it. We’re a bunch of smug farmer’s market-loving, yoga pants-wearing, can’t get enough green juice, drive like total dicks when it’s raining, flip-flops in winter sporting, yes-I-can-still-purchase-strawberries-in-September, “I’ll take my Double Double protein style” buttholes. We understand. But, I’m not going to stop complaining currently. Probably because I’m a participating member of said California Butthole Club. Also, because the hills around my house are so dry, it feels as if everything will turn to Grapes of Wrath in a hot second if a hiker sneezes. That small “atchoooo” might be all that stands between us and an epic Steinbeck-worthy dust bowl. I really don’t want to be around for the Steinbeck-appreciation sequel titled The Grapes Get Wrathier. I already had to use Cliff’s Notes on the first book. Don’t tell my high school English teacher. Even though, I think he knew. They always know. […]