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Hello there Reader, Thanksgiving doesn't have to leave you cursing like a sailor. (Although, if you ever heard Mama Leite muttering in Portuguese while wrestling a 22-pound turkey into submission, you might think otherwise.) As someone who's hosted more holiday dinners than my youthful countenance would suggest―some of which ended with me hiding in the basement, clutching a bottle of wine, and questioning my life choices―I've learned a thing or two about keeping my sanity intact. The One will back me up on this, especially after That One Year We Shall Never Speak Of Again when I nearly burned down the house. But I digress. What I've learned is mastering Thanksgiving is all about strategy. And, unlike how I usually cook―which The One likens to a tornado in an apron―this requires that dreaded word: planning. Allow me to share with you my hard-won five-day plan that'll keep you from ending up in the fetal position behind the washing machine. (Not that I know anything about that.) My Free Foolproof Five-Day Countdown
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Hi Reader, Every summer, my refrigerator develops a split personality. The front shelves look perfectly respectable. There's fruit, yogurt, maybe a head of lettuce I swear I'm going to use. But hidden behind all that? A small arsenal of sauces. Jars of pesto. Containers of chimichurri. A rogue mayonnaise that's been given a suspicious amount of smoked paprika. Something red, spicy, and vaguely threatening. Usually at least one mystery sauce that seemed like a brilliant idea three days ago and...
Hi Reader, There’s something wonderfully rebellious about slowing down on a Sunday.Not dramatic rebellion. Nobody’s spray-painting slogans across the garage door or storming town hall with flags. More the quiet sort: lingering over coffee, letting dinner happen gradually, refusing to optimize every blessed hour of the weekend like we’re contestants on a productivity game show from 1987.I soooo didn’t appreciate that rhythm when I was younger. Sundays in my Portuguese family had their own...
Hi Reader, A few summers ago, Alan came home to find every available flat surface in the kitchen occupied. Not metaphorically. Literally.There were jars on the counter. Jars on the table. Jars cooling on dish towels. Jars waiting their turn. Cucumbers floating in brine. Cherries steeping in vinegar. Something involving jalapeños that required opening a window and issuing a formal warning.He stood there for a moment, taking it all in."What happened?" he asked."I had produce," I said, as if...