Yesterday my husband stumbled into the kitchen at 9 a.m., eyes squinting and hair mashed to one side. His eyes trailed from the potato-streaked mixing bowls to to the flour-dusted countertops before finally landing on me: hands slathered with softened butter, arm halfway up the ass of a 17-pound, free-range turkey. “Do you need any help?” he croaked.
“No,” I said, with a flourish that earned the line a Scarlett O’Hara inflection in his numerous retellings. “This,” I gushed, “is my Super Bowl.” Continue reading
After a few false starts, fall has finally settled here in north Texas—and nowhere is this more evident than the bowls of produce on my kitchen counter. My tableau of stoplight tomatoes and blushing peaches has given way to the jeweled tones and dappled textures of autumn: leathery potatoes, emerald apples, freckled pears, garnet grapes. Standing in my kitchen, surveying my farmers market bounty, I understand why artists have been known to break out their oil paints in the presence of such exquisite, accessible beauty. 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