It’s Pride, and this Saturday I’m walking the Roswell Pride Walk. So before the month runs out on a calendar full of fruit salad and steak, here’s the thing I actually believe: LGBTQ+ equality is line one of what I stand for, and it isn’t an abstraction. It has names, and they eat at my table.
Six days into a Tulsa road trip: a Route 66 bridge that sings Woody Guthrie, the best Moroccan tagine of my life, Tex-Mex since 1953, and two right slippers
: I came home from Tulsa obsessed with El Rancho Grande’s peanut butter jalapeños. The dish, the plan to recreate it, and a bacon-on-the-Kamado idea.
Carol’s potato salad is mayo, mustard, yellow onion, celery, and dill relish dressed on hot potatoes. No secrets. Just muscle memory and good timing.
Six days into a Tulsa road trip: a Route 66 bridge that sings Woody Guthrie, the best Moroccan tagine of my life, Tex-Mex since 1953, and two right slippers
Adapting Sally’s lavender blackberry cake to gluten-free taught me what cream cheese does structurally. A redeemed disaster, plus the recipe I should have made.
Posted from the Napoleon Hotel in Memphis, with my feet up and something cold from the cooler. Well, y’all. I made it halfway. This week’s roundup comes to you from Memphis, where I’m crashing for the night before the second half of the drive to Tulsa tomorrow morning. My friend Anna is meeting me for…
So I’ve been redesigning the blog. I’ll spare y’all the full backstage tour, but if you’ve been around here for any length of time, you’ve watched me cycle through enough visual identities to fill a small museum. Or possibly a cautionary tale. There was the cursive script phase, when the header looked like a wedding…
Y’all, what a week. Zach and I have both been down with whatever crud is going around. Mine started last Friday with a sore throat that sent me home early from work, and the next five days disappeared into a haze of DayQuil, NyQuil, hot toddies, chicken soup, and sleep. A full week later I’m…
Here’s the thing about me and margaritas: I love a well-made one. Same with a good paloma. Fresh lime juice, real grapefruit juice, decent tequila, none of that bottled neon-green stuff sweetened with corn syrup. Our local Mexican restaurant in Alpharetta makes them properly: fresh-squeezed citrus, balanced sweetness, no shortcuts. When I’m out and the…
If you read Sunday’s post, you already know what these are doing here today. If you didn’t, the short version is: I’m a Texan, it’s Cinco de Mayo week, and I’m cooking what I actually cook on Cinco de Mayo, which is Tex-Mex, made by a Texan, with full honesty about what it is and…
I did not grow up observing Cinco de Mayo. Nobody in my Texas family did. It wasn’t a holiday in the way Christmas or Thanksgiving or even the Fourth of July was a holiday; it was a date on the calendar that occasionally meant something at school and otherwise didn’t. In college it became an…
