this is a page for

Category: Recipes

You Say Frittata

We’re eating a looot of eggs around here.  I  mean,  a lot.  The ladies at the farmers market are already moving to the cold case by the time I approach their kiosk on Fridays.  Which I guess is a good thing, since they’re all sorts of healthy (the eggs, not the ladies, I mean, though I’m sure the women are great, too).  But I’m making a bit of a switch from just throwing them into cookies (we also eat a loooot of cookies.  Stop lecturing me) and using them as meals.  What meals, you ask?  Because I know that you, sitting there (hi!) in front of your laptop, taking your only 15-minute break of the day while the baby sleeps, would so rather be reading about eggs than, say, Kim Kardashian getting flour bombed at an event (flour? really?  That’s not very nice, people.  I imagine that stuff is a pain in the butt to wash out of hair extensions). So back to the eggs.  You know how you read all these articles about the magic of creating salads with all the leftovers you find in your fridge?  That…

Good Thing She Doesn’t Eat Hamburger

We were at the dinner table. “Mom, look at the geese!” Saoirse suddenly exclaimed.  She pointed out the window to a flock flying over our house, causing Quinn to gasp at all the excitement.  “I love the birds.” She paused, forking another heaping mound of chicken taco chili into her mouth. “Mom?” Saoirse asked.  “Do people eat birds?” I watched her, chewing happily, then looked at Quinn, who was shoving forkfuls of the chili and rice into her mouth at an alarming rate. “Um,” I said, stalling. “Do you mean birds that fly?” “Yeah!” “Um.” I swallowed. “Some people do,” I said.  “Eat birds that fly.  I don’t, though.  I don’t eat birds that fly.” “Uck.  That’s GROSS.” She took another bite of her chili, content with her analysis. “Well, you know…” I decided to continue, already feeling a little guilty that David wasn’t home from work yet to witness this conversation–or stop me from where I was leading it.  “…chicken’s…

Posing as Posole

Sunday afternoon I jetted off to the coffee shop of our local MegaBookStore to spend a couple quiet hours, leaving David in a quiet, albeit slightly messy house and the perpetual pile of laundry that is constantly being folded, put away, washed, and folded again.  You know what I’m talking about. He’s always encouraging me to do this–take a couple of hours here, a few there, maybe use that gift certificate for a massage he gave me for my first Mother’s Day (yes, that was almost four years ago. Don’t you go lecturing me, too).  He is a kind enough guy that he may truly be encouraging me to take some time for myself, but I secretly think he just really loves the luxury of the kids and the house to himself.  It’s funny how after you have children, if you’re married, you’re rarely in the house without someone else in it.  I lived by myself for most of my non-married twenties because I liked the autonomy (that and my first post-college roommate had the creepiest boyfriend who always seemed to lurk…