Hi Reader, My Vovó had a theory that the number of pots you dirtied was directly proportional to your level of foolishness. “One pan, good cook,” she’d mutter, stirring something miraculous. “Two pans, lazy mind.” I once asked her what three pans meant. She didn’t answer—just gave me a look that could curdle milk.I think of her every Monday night, when the weekend optimism has drained out of me and the sink looks like a cautionary tale. That’s when I channel her spirit: the one-pot...
5 days ago • 2 min read
Hi Reader, Sunday mornings are dangerous. Not “hold-my-beer” dangerous—more like “what-if-I-made-my-own-ketchup” dangerous.It always starts the same way: caffeine, too much of it, an overestimation of my ability. The One's usually still in bed when I announce, “I’m making something from scratch today.” He groans. He’s seen this movie before. By noon, there’ll be three pots going, one blender disassembled, and enough splattered tomato on the walls to look like a murder scene.But here’s the...
6 days ago • 3 min read
Hi Reader, Every time there’s a real winter storm—the kind with names, warnings, and that creeping sense of we might be here a while—The One makes the same thing. Blizzard Beef. No debate. No browsing. He reaches for a chuck roast like it’s a life preserver. It started years ago during a blizzard that shut everything down so thoroughly even the cats looked scared. He seasoned that roast aggressively, seared it hard, slid it into a pot with water, a reckless amount of Worcestershire sauce. I,...
7 days ago • 5 min read
Hi Reader, There are few things in life as reliable as pasta—and believe me, I’ve tested the theory.When I was younger (and delusional), I thought “weeknight dinner” meant something quick and light, like a salad or a responsible grain bowl. Then I met Wednesday. You know her—tired, cranky, wearing yesterday’s socks and whispering, “Feed me carbs or I’ll end you.”Back in the day, my mother could turn a pound of pasta and a can of tomatoes into an act of grace. The whole apartment would fill...
10 days ago • 2 min read
Hi Reader, Whenever the calendar flips to mid-January, my body stages a quiet protest. Too much cream. Too much butter. Too much “just one more slice.” I can practically hear my arteries sighing.That’s when I go coastal.Growing up, the ocean wasn’t just a backdrop—it was therapy. My family’s version of a cleanse didn’t involve green juice or kale; it was grilled sardines, lemony cod, or a bowl of seafood rice that smelled like sunlight on saltwater. Simple food that didn’t weigh you down or...
12 days ago • 3 min read
Hi Reader, I’ve never met a bad day that couldn’t be partially fixed with cheese. Flat tire? Cheese. Missed deadline? Cheese. Existential dread because it’s January and you've already broken your New Year's resolution to get in shape? Double cheese.The One likes to remind me that cheese “isn’t a food group.” Which is adorable. Because in this house, it totally is. There’s a reason refrigerators have an entire drawer dedicated to it, people! I call it the Cheese Annex. Manchego, mozzarella,...
14 days ago • 2 min read
Hi Reader, I stood in front of the fridge, staring at a half-wilted bunch of kale like it had personally offended me. It’s mid-January, and my noble commitment to “light, clean eating” has officially crumbled—right around the same time the snowplow buried our mailbox.The One, ever the realist, walked in, glanced at the produce drawer, and said, “You’re making lasagna, aren’t you?” He knows me too well.January is not a month for restraint. It’s a month for bubbling casseroles, for soups that...
17 days ago • 2 min read
Hi Reader, In my twenties, I used to blow half a week’s paycheck at this impossibly chic restaurant in New York—low lighting, soft jazz, waiters who looked like they moonlighted as poets. I’d sit there, swirling my glass of something I couldn’t pronounce, thinking, One day, I’ll cook like this.Spoiler: I did not. Not at first.But over the years, I learned that “restaurant quality” doesn’t require a brigade of sous chefs or a copper pot the size of a Fiat. What it really takes is patience. And...
19 days ago • 2 min read
Hi Reader, On some special nights, The One and I play a game called “What Do You Want for Dinner?” It’s a full-contact sport.He’ll say, “I don’t know—something light.” Then immediately follow it with, “But not salad.” I’ll counter with, “How about chicken?” and he’ll wince like I’ve suggested boiled shoe leather. Twenty minutes later, I’m halfway through a mental Rolodex of recipes, he’s scrolling takeout menus, and the cat has judged us both.But somehow, chicken saves the day. Every. Single....
21 days ago • 3 min read
