It's getting weird.
Taco Tuesday was not born into this world fumbling for meaning, which is why I figured it didn't matter to have it on a Wednesday instead.
in fucking AUGUST, people.
Men leave town. Bad behavior begins. Mushrooms are made. Apologies are not.
You can't get into Italian heaven without knowing how to make 8-hour sauce but since my mom won't let me post the recipe I guess you're all fucked.
Refractory period be damned.
A meal fit for this goodbye would of course be filled with lumps.
Ascend to the butter dopethrone by hacking your stupid stick butter into something more useful. Bonus: a cornbread mix recommendation.
Summer is TOMATO JUICE RUNNING DOWN YOUR HANDS WHILE SPEARING RAW HUNKS OF MEAT ON STICKS AND COOKING OVER FIRE and then pairing it with lemon-herb quinoa because god damn it you are civilized.
Cooking from instinct, much like genetics, has more to do with what's within you than what you've learned in your miserable life.
Skipped a day of meals on accident because I live in terminal 2 of the Saint Louis airport. This efficiently made up for it.
I'm not into the 'tough shit' mentality. This goes double for meat.
I would call it ho-made but Marcella Hazan just does not strike me as particularly promiscuous.
A moment of acceptance: none of this was ever the grill's fault.
I am on day 10 of what will become a 19-day work week, during which you are apparently only allowed to eat chipotle bowls and california pizza kitchen and the pistachios you found in your former boss's desk.
It's only fitting that this dinner would have distinct aesthetic similarities to the final shot of tonight's Game of Thrones.
I am not a hangover Big Mac person. I can't just GO to Taco Bell. This is not a recipe, but a technique I learned after burning my last frozen pizza.
I don't like to wash pots or strainers, so I cooked the pasta in the sauce-milk. It's not a secret recipe because apparently everyone already knows.
Trader Joe's doesn't sell onion powder, and thus, the Trader Joe's Onion Dip Mix method of burger seasoning is born.
'Texan' because my friend made this while I was busy stirring macaroni. She is from El Paso.
It's a curious state of contemplation to wonder if you've become THAT person, the one who is asked to make the pasta salad and debates which dish will provide the most stability in the car.
The grill goes rogue, slaughters meat, lights fires, tortures lemons; still, asparagus perseveres.
When you wake up on a Saturday at 1:30pm and you have to take antibiotics with food and your brain hurts too much to wash your sheets, quesadilla is here.
I call it rustic because that's what you call chunky food you can't be bothered to blend. Other people call it "shockingly ugly for how popular it was on Instagram."
Whole grains and cruciferous greens make this pasta feel adult. It's because of the fiber.
The weather sucks and whenever the weather sucks I find myself mulling concepts that have no point and that no one wants to hear about. Onion soup lends itself well to abstraction.
Plus my list of the 25 things to do by the age of 25. "Do one week of laundry per week" and "put $100 of each paycheck into savings" did not make the cut.
Presenting a second, meatier installment of pizza: the series.
Everything may be awful, but at least it's not fucking snowing.
I don't sleep. I also love garlic. People look confused when I make jokes about being a vampire.