First, a confession. This post has been in draft form since Mothers Day, when a colorful and easy-to-assemble breakfast recipe would have been truly appreciated. I spent a lovely May evening on our apartment patio, jotting down musings on motherhood while sipping a nice Pinot noir. But when I returned to the keyboard the next morning, I found instead a scrawled manifesto on why motherhood terrifies me. (And any piece of prose that includes the line “NO I WILL NOT GIVE UP CHEESE FOR YOU, YOU WRINKLY, KNEE-FACED HUMAN” has no place in Mothers Day literature.) Continue reading
Those of us who cook typically aren’t content to keep it to ourselves. Our communal tradition of food demands some sort of audience—whether it’s coworkers peeling back the foil of a still-warm coffee cake or strangers liking the Instagram shot of your pad thai (#nom). When such sporadic appreciation fails to satisfy our egos, we tend to go big—and go home.
In other words, we throw a dinner party. Continue reading
Though generally content, I have lately found myself battling bouts of dissatisfaction. I covet the people responsible for a “sold” sign outside my favorite Craftsman home, the piles of primary-colored leaves in the background of friends’ Instagram photos, the couple on my Facebook feed trekking blissfully across Europe. Even girls wearing bright red lipstick or ballerina buns have found themselves in the crosshairs of my jealousy (I’m looking at you, Lauren Conrad), seeing as I am unable to follow such trends without resembling a clown or a toddler.
I rarely voice such complaints, recognizing they’re both absurd and outrageously outnumbered. Continue reading