Honest Whole 30 Recap, Week Three + Rosemary Meatballs With Dijon Collard Greens & Apricots + Enter to WIN the Autoimmune Paleo Cookbook!

Well, my lovely friends–It’s been THREE whole weeks. If you are just joining us this week, I can catch you up with Week One and Week Two!
For three whole weeks, no cheese has touched these lips. No grains have graced my tongue. Nary a bean has entered this pie hole. More than that… no actual pie has entered this pie hole (not even pizza pie). These days I stress eat carrots. Do we call this progress? Maybe. Does the fact I think those carrots taste dang sweet feel like a victory? Not sure. Mostly I feel like nature is tricking me into feeling like veggies belong in a Willy Wonka film. That’s fine. We can make that chocolate river into a green smoothie. Add some chia for texture. Not too much, though, or we can’t boat on it.  This has already gotten weird. You’re welcome.
All in all, things have been going really great. I don’t feel as tortured and dramatic in the day to day. There have been a few evenings of cravings where I just sub in something benign. Oh, I can’t have a hunk of chocolate? No problem. I’ll just eat this apricot and some almonds. The substitution does one of two things–it either satisfies you or you’ll find yourself grumpy and not able to eat it because it’s not chocolate. The second one means you’re not really hungry. If you’re looking all sideways at an almond and blaming it for not being dessert, just put the almonds down. No need to curse at them. I’ve already done it for you. We’ve had a dialogue. It turns out it wasn’t the almond that has issues, it was me. Typical. […]

How To Make Coconut Butter

So, butter.

We have a history.

This weekend I was hanging out with my family, and these words were inevitably spoken to me:

“Hey, Gina! Remember how you used to sneak into the fridge and leave finger prints in the butter container?”

Yes. Yes I do. It went something like this…

I would wait until no one was in my grandparent’s kitchen. I would sneak over to the fridge and pray that the large tub of Country Crock was within my stubby-four-year-old-arm’s reach. If it was, I would sneakily remove it from its place in the fridge and bring it over to the kitchen table. Silently, I would remove the top off of the tub of butter. Eureka! I would dip my fat little fingers inside of the container and eat the butter off my hands. Carefully, I would put the top back on the container and make sure to place it back where I found it in the refrigerator. My four-year old self did not understand that I had left substantial evidence of my shenanigans behind. There were little finger divots and prints left in the butter tub. I was the only four-year-old that frequented that house. I was caught red-handed. Several times. I will also NEVER live this down. […]