Listen up, y’all. I have something important to say. Just because it’s Sunday and you’re all alone, that doesn’t mean you can’t make yourself a Sunday night feast. And just because it’s 90 degrees and brutal outside, that doesn’t mean your feast can’t include a roast chicken. I won’t let any of that stop me. No way, no how. Either way I’m roasting a chicken. (You can expect this to be the title of my first memoir.)
I love being a grown up. Sure, some aspects are the worst, like taxes. But the freedom of choice you have as an adult is fantastic. I particularly enjoy deciding what I want to cook and when. If I want to fry pumpkin doughnuts the day after eating an undisclosed number of chicken nuggets, I can. If I want to wake up hungover to make homemade “breakfast handpies” (read: pop tarts), I can. And if I want to make certain dishes that my mother tells me to for Easter weekend, I can do that too.
Last week a few pals and I went out to a Mexican restaurant and did what everyone does at a Mexican restaurant – drank entirely too many margaritas. It was fun while it was happening…not so much the next morning. So I did what every sensible person does to cure a common hangover; I had hair of the dog that bit me. And, no, I’m actually not talking about margaritas (although, that would have been a welcome addition). I made a nice, hearty, totally americanized version of a Mexican brunch!
The season of soups and stews is upon us, and this year I’m ready to fully embrace it. I don’t know what got me so jazzed for soups all of a sudden. Maybe it’s because I got a Le Creuset last Christmas and haven’t been able to use it regularly yet. Maybe it’s because I’ve been perusing my Pinterest during the changing of seasons and found some intriguing recipes (see here, here, and here). Maybe it’s because soup makes great leftovers and I’m getting sick of a kale salad for lunch every day. Either way, I made my first batch of homemade chicken stock last weekend and boy am I itchin’ to use it.