I’m a stickler for traditions. If we don’t eat the white lasagna on Christmas Eve or jump in the lake after our morning walks in Vermont, things just don’t feel right. You could accuse me of not liking change (and you’d be right), but I like to think of it as keeping things classic. And just because I like to keep things classic, doesn’t mean that I don’t like to try new things, too.
Back in mid-May, I made what very well may be the last meal I cook in my home of 16 years. My parents are selling our house. Just like baking chocolate or revenge, it’s bittersweet. After living in five different states all while under the age of 10, we finally landed in New Jersey, where I did most of my growing up and where I learned how great bagels really are. In that house, we’ve said goodbye to dear pets and we’ve welcomed new ones. On our street, I learned how to drive in a car that was recently, after 17 years, traded in for a pick-up truck. (I’m still laughing about how my dad parks his new truck behind his cream-colored Mini-Cooper with racing stripes.) Through the years, I’ve left our pretty, grey house for multiple adventures to Europe and across the U.S. Over almost two years in Brooklyn, I’ve gone back often to spend quiet weekends in the suburbs with my parents and my pets. And, in our home’s kitchen, I’ve learned how to cook.
Did you guys know that I’m, like, such a beach kid?