There are no recipes, only showing off. This year for St. Patrick’s Day, I spent the day and night with one of my best friends and her family, who I am happy to also consider my friends. We started the day with shots of Bailey’s. Her mother made corned beef, cabbage, and red potatoes all served with mustard.
We slathered salty, room-temperature butter on homemade Irish soda bread, and then we enjoyed Irish-themed goodies from Betty Bakery.
I have some great friends.
At this point, probably not. It’s been a long long time, and I have no apologies about it. In the time I have not been blogging, I graduated from culinary school, quit my job as a clinical dietitian, started working in the food industry, said goodbye to my brother who is now finishing deployment in Afghanistan with the USAF, and continued to travel nearly every week to visit my SS.
My return will mark a new chapter in my blogging life. I will use this venue more as a notebook than a means of communicating things to you. Selfish? Oh yes. But blogging in itself is exactly that. My ambition is to scrapbook my kitchen adventures in the hopes of compiling a solid collection of actual recipes.
I hate ’em. But the fact is, if I ever want to reach my goal of publishing an original cookbook, I have to start being a bit more diligent. It’ll take a while to get into the recipe testing groove, but I’m ready for the challenge.
So, if you’re interested in following this totally self-absorbed task, I’d love it if you stayed. Otherwise, well, it’s been real.
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.
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.