It was the second week of September—one of those bridge weeks between summer and fall—when the days still feel warm but the evenings start whispering about sweaters and earlier dinners. I remember standing in my little kitchen, flipping through an…
I still remember the first time I made chicken tenders from scratch. My youngest, Sam, had just come home from his first week of kindergarten, tired and overwhelmed, with that quiet little look that said the world had been just…
There’s a particular summer memory I always come back to when I think of fried zucchini. It’s late July, and the heat has settled over the backyard like a heavy quilt. My husband is dragging the hose across the garden,…
I still remember the first time I made blackened chicken. It wasn’t in some sun-drenched New Orleans kitchen or on a dreamy Southern road trip—it was on a Tuesday night in my tiny, slightly chaotic apartment kitchen, years ago. I…
I still remember the summer my neighbor Rosa brought over a basket of zucchini the size of my forearm. She had a small garden that overproduced every August, and she was always trying to offload a few dozen onto the…
I still remember the first time I tried marinating steak. I was twenty-three, newly married, and convinced I could turn a cheap cut of meat into something steakhouse-worthy—armed with nothing but a bottle of Italian dressing and a lot of…
There are a handful of recipes I can trace back to a moment so vividly, I can smell the kitchen as it was. This chicken leg recipe is one of them. It was a gray Sunday, one of those slow,…
I was first introduced to chimichurri steak in a way I never expected—on a folding chair, by a smoky old grill, at a neighborhood barbecue I almost didn’t go to. It was one of those long early summer evenings, the…
There’s something quietly comforting about a tuna sandwich. Not flashy, not trendy—just honest, humble, and deeply satisfying. I still remember the very first tuna sandwich I ever made by myself. I was twelve, home from school on a snow day,…
I recall the first time I made an Italian pasta salad that turned out well. Not the soggy, over-dressed versions I’d brought to church picnics in my twenties, or the ones that sat untouched on buffet tables, limp and lost…