I was at the beach last weekend for a wedding, when the topic of Dutch ovens came up. My friend Laura, the bride, asked me what she should make in her new Le Creuset when we were at the afterparty. In that particular setting I didn’t quite have a list of recipes to rattle off to her, but right away I shouted, “Ricotta! Ya gotta make ricotta, it’s so easy….but uhhhh, remind me tomorrow,” and I went back to my prosecco split and totally not embarrassing Snapchat story.
I love throwing parties. If I had a truly disposable income and an untiring pool of friends, I’d throw a party a month.
Well, Memorial Day Weekend has come and gone and I’m so happy it’s the start of another summer season.
Remember 11 months ago when I wrote this earnest and emotional post about my parents leaving our home of seventeen years? Well, a month ago, it finally happened.
I have a great Easter brunch for you. How ‘bout that? This may be the first time I’ve had the forethought to share something with you that is seasonally relevant while also being published in a timely manner before a holiday. After a year plus, I’ve learned some things about the blogging world.
I’m a little embarrassed to pop back in here, after ignoring this space for so long. But hey, life gets busy, you know?
The weather in suburban New Jersey today is ideal for the lazy vacation day I’m taking. It’s one of my favorite kinds of days: a grey and drizzly day in December during which I feel perfectly content to order Christmas presents from bed while snuggling with one of my loving pets. What it is, is the perfect afternoon for a bowl of soup. But all of my soup is in Brooklyn, frozen and waiting for me to have the forethought to thaw it before I want it. Where did I learn how to do that? Well, from my mother, who also has several soup varieties sitting downstairs in her freezer, perfectly frozen and hard as a rock.
Listen up, y’all. I have something important to say. Just because it’s Sunday and you’re all alone, that doesn’t mean you can’t make yourself a Sunday night feast. And just because it’s 90 degrees and brutal outside, that doesn’t mean your feast can’t include a roast chicken. I won’t let any of that stop me. No way, no how. Either way I’m roasting a chicken. (You can expect this to be the title of my first memoir.)
A Pinch of This 