Raise your hand if you don’t want to actually cook dinner tonight? I can’t actually see you, but I’m pretty sure your hand is raised. Mine is. High. Way up there. Like, straight up. I must look like I have an urgent question. I’m going to put my arm down now. It’s much easier to type with two hands. You’re probably like “Um, Gina…why are you so mad at cooking? You write a dang food blog. Are you upset with your life choices? WHAT IS LIFE?!?!” Or, maybe this is just me having an uncomfortably public, not-so-internal existential crisis on the internet…and talking about myself in the third person, which is kind of gross and every bit regrettable. That’s cool, guys. I’m fine. Let’s just eat some raw fish. We’re going to make this Salmon and Avocado Poke, which is full of all the good fats and will hopefully power my brain to write better sentences and not be 98% all types of embarrassing. Not likely. But, we can dream. […]
I know this soup looks entirely like winter, but I’m not convinced that soup should have a season.
Plus, if we’re honest, spring hasn’t been super committal this year. It’s somewhere between 50 degrees and 87 degrees every day. So, my California wardrobe feels confused. Do I wear a sweater, or is this fog going to burn off– leaving me to sweat like an Easter ham? Do I gamble and wear a dress? Or, is it going to start raining–leaving my laboriously shaved legs to goosebump and become spiky once again. It’s confusing to be in your thirties and feel like you’re not able to dress yourself correctly. At least we have soup, you guys. I get soup. I understand soup. Soup’s not going to make me feel like an idiot for wearing this sweater. I love you, soup. I really do.
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. […]
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. […]