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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, I’ve had recipes get stuck in my head the way songs do.Not important songs, mind you. Not arias. Not “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” More like the chorus of “Come On Eileen,” looping at 2:13 a.m.That’s what happens every May. Some dish—usually golden, a little messy, and far too pleased with itself—starts humming in the back of my brain. I make it once. Then again. Then suddenly it’s in regular rotation, and The One is looking at me across the table with that silent fork-lift of...
Hi Reader, The spring salads have officially taken over my kitchen.This happened gradually, the way seasonal shifts always do. First a handful of herbs that seemed too fresh to cook. Then a bunch of radishes that practically insisted on being sliced raw. Then last Saturday’s market haul, which arrived home looking so green and self-assured that my Dutch oven regarded the cutting board with what I can only describe as professional concern.I resisted longer than the weather justified. My...
Hi Reader, I once hosted a Cinco de Mayo party with twenty-four hours’ notice and the kind of reckless confidence usually reserved for people who have never done the thing they’re about to attempt.At the time, it felt heroic.In reality, I spent the evening ricocheting between the kitchen and the table like a man trying to live in two rooms at once—stirring something, checking something, realizing I’d forgotten something. At one point I looked up and discovered everyone else had been sitting...