Immigrant Food

For a long time, I naively believed there was such a thing as "us" and "them."  Certain events (particularly, unfortunate ones) happen to certain people for certain reasons, but not to me for a variety of others.  What is it that allows us to think like that?  Perhaps nothing more than the evolutionary drive of self-preservation. But life's daily experiences, and a few large punctuating events, have taught me that there is no such thing.  Luck of birth, cosmic whim, whatever you want to call it - much of what we get in life, good or bad, is chance.  

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Shakshuka it Up

Tygh and I have often have weird work schedules.  From call hours to shift changes, our schedules are rarely 8-5pm.  Which means the 2-kid dinner rush is sometimes endured as a single parent.  

I can't complain too much because neither of us travels significantly for work or is gone more than a night or two per week, so we always more than manage.  But still, after a long day, getting through the witching hour alone is enough to make me want to pour bowls of cereal for everyone and call it good (I've only done that a few times, I swear).

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Heart and Sole

Over the 20-some years (for reals) Tygh and I have been together, he has gotten me some truly thoughtful gifts.  Some have been bigger, monumental items, while others have been little tokens he's found randomly that he knew I would like.  He is the definition of a great gift giver because he almost always chooses things I want, but wouldn't necessarily splurge on for myself. 

He's also not stupid.  Meaning, if he has a chance to buy me a gift he knows I will love, but from which he will also benefit, he goes all out.  Think: sports gear, dinner dates, nights away, bedroom, uh, decor, etc.

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In Deep

I’ve been to Chicago exactly once (if we exclude airport stopovers). But I, along with Tygh, my cousin, Jamie, and her hubby, Chris, managed to visit 3 deep-dish pizzerias (in addition to our regular dinner reservations) during those fateful 48 hours, so I feel pretty legit.

Which I is why I am compelled to share this killer, at-home-in-your-very-own-kitchen version I came across not too long ago.  If you have a cast iron skillet and an oven, you can make fabulous deep-dish pizza at home.  Really. 

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A Wonderful Fruit

Admittedly, we eat a lot of beans in our house.  I’ve only posted a few bean recipes, but that’s because I have to spread ‘em out so you can ease into flatulence at your own pace.  However, I’ve got dozens of favorites – bean salads, bean soups, baked beans, roasted beans – and, in an effort to spare you one of my rhetorical anecdotes, I want to share with you one of them that is near and dear.

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Kitchen Hooky

Somehow, the last two months got away from me.  Somewhere between Thanksgiving, June’s birthday, Christmas, that tiny obligation known as work and various perfectly timed illnesses affecting me and the kids in rapid, repeating succession, I have essentially avoided the kitchen anytime I wasn’t specifically entertaining.

Am I the only one, or is this is another part of that transition into adulthood no one really tells you about?  You know, that part where the holidays more or less Christopher Guest you à la The Princess Bride: “I’ve just sucked one year of your life away…” My kids seemed to have a blast – which is ultimately all that counts. But I found myself so behind on gifts, decorating, meal planning, birthday planning, etc that I just wanted it to be over before it had begun; terrible attitude and not my usual modus operandi.  Whaaa whaaaa…


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Bros and Blogging

My brother and I could not be more different.  He is the quintessential computer genius, while I can barely find my way around a word document.  He’s not into sports (I love them), spent the first half of his life eating only white foods (while I’ve loved gravlax and salads since my toddler days) and can sleep standing up (I need total darkness, white noise and have specific temperature requirements).  He’s incredibly private, too, while I… well…I’ve started a blog.

But the one place we come together is in our sense of humor – find any movie, comedian, joke, untoward situation and he and I will inevitably laugh at the same parts (his, a quiet chuckle, mine a boisterous guffaw).

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Curry Up


I love coming home from work; the sound of the double doors closing behind me, driving home with my radio blasting, the anticipation of walking through the front door and seeing my littles.  And it always plays out in my mind how I’m going to rush in, give everyone kisses and then play with abandon until some well-rounded and delicious dinner miraculously appears on the table and I, with my glass of wine, will sit down and enjoy my family around the dinner table.

But it never materializes quite like that, does it?  No, no it doesn’t.  Instead, as soon as the front door opens and the first little kisses and hugs are given, all fucking hell breaks loose. 

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