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ramblings

As I sit here on my lunch break reading a cooking magazine featuring pesto recipes, I realized I hadn’t mentioned a key ingredient I used in the arugula pesto recipe I recently featured on ye ol’ blog: GARLIC.

Use as much or as little as you’d like, but please, use it.

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It’s pretty obvious that I’m usually the one cooking for others. And that’s the way I like it. But every once in a while, someone prepares something for me.

That most recent something was a B.L.T. Bacon, lettuce and tomatoes, squished between ranch-slathered toast never tasted so good. And it’s totally worth my cooking another 10 meals to have one made for me again.

Years ago, the thought of preparing a meal for a man was a joke. I’m no feminist, but the idea that a woman should conform to gender stereotypes was hilarious to me. Until now.

It’s not to say that I believe it is my duty to feed my man, but the joy it gives me seeing him scarf down a plate of my home cooking is enough to get me to do it again and again. And it’s not terribly inconvenient to be able to rely on him for manual labor. Knowing this, my S.S. likes to resort to his Midwestern roots and convince me that a woman’s place is in the home, and a man is responsible for, well, just take a look (keep in mind that this is mostly a joke. Mostly):

(And my response? “Ah. Well at least it’s documented.”)

While I have no problem cooking, and even committing to mild household chores, I still don’t see the point of making the bed, and I don’t do laundry.

Merry Christmas (etc.) to all my favorite people! May your holiday season be happy and healthy.

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(The tree is decorated with the following: sock, plastic bag, Frosted Flakes cereal wrapper, Red Bull can, Christmas cards, hoop earrings, fake cherries, Halls sucker, generic Airborne.)

It seems the holidays have snuck up on me. Wasn’t it just last weekend that I prepared my first Thanksgiving dinner?

The one with herb-mustard butter for the chicken (yes, chicken–there were only three of us!)? With white gravy, green bean casserole, and scallion mashed potatoes? Wasn’t it just last weekend I made homemade cornbread for sausage stuffing? And wasn’t it all washed down with pumpkin custard?

Am I showing off? A bit. Believe me, it didn’t all go as smoothly as I’m making it seem. But in the end, after all the profanities, I managed to produce a Thanksgiving dinner that I was proud to share.

And I can’t believe it’s already over.

One of the most comforting foods I’ve ever known is cinnamon toast. Growing up, my dad was the one to make my breakfast. Often it consisted of a Breakfast Hot Pocket, or a Toaster Strudel, but on a good day, my dad would make cinnamon toast. Last week, in an effort to ease my pre-midterm nerves, I whipped up a few slices:

My parents had made me a loaf of homemade white bread, which I toasted and then topped it with a generous smear of butter and a good sprinkling of sugar and pumpkin pie spice (though, as the name suggests, cinnamon is the more traditional route).