
I don’t know where you are, but it’s fall in Brooklyn. It’s gloriously pleasant to be outside and my weekends are finally being spent at home, watching football (who have I become??) and putzing in the kitchen. Continue reading

I don’t know where you are, but it’s fall in Brooklyn. It’s gloriously pleasant to be outside and my weekends are finally being spent at home, watching football (who have I become??) and putzing in the kitchen. Continue reading

Well, well, well.
Here she is, referring to herself in the third person and pulling the same bullshit as always.
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Somehow, over the span of my 15+ years calling north Jersey my home, I never watched The Sopranos.

When I decided to sit down (read: curl up in bed under a duvet) to finally write a blog post tonight, I didn’t even realize I would do it while watching the new season of The Great British Bake Off. As I wrote about cookies. As I wrote about cookies well-suited to ice cream sandwiches. As I watched a bunch of Brits bake biscuits destined to be biscuit sandwiches for Paul Hollywood and that new lady who isn’t Mary Berry. THIS WAS MEANT TO BE.

Here I am, cruisin’ down Rt. 91 on my way home from Easter at my parents – a time for new sundresses and a refreshing spring thaw – and it’s snowing. Again. On April 2nd.

Everyone thinks I throw a Galentine’s party every year because of Leslie Knope. And yeah, ok, that’s definitely part of it.

One of my first ever memories was sneaking food from the floor of the pantry while my mom did laundry.