Recipes

In a recent newsletter, author, writing teacher, and podcaster Jonathan Rogers talked about the inefficiency of hospitality. He went on to discuss more about how to be hospitable to our own creative ideas, a practice I’m woefully bad at. (Read his newsletter here for more on that.) But his words about the broader topic of hospitality have really stuck with me.

A few days ago, one of my kids walked in from the garage holding a nearly empty, Costco-sized bag of tortilla chips. He stuffed a few crumbs into his mouth when I realized, “Wait, isn’t that the bag that’s been sitting in the garage all night?”

So yeah, my kid is eating stale chips from the garage. But also, why were the chips in the garage?

There are hundreds…yes hundreds…of pieces of candy stashed around my house right now. One of my children has sorted each type into different bags, making sure every candy finds its proper place. Another child dumped everything in a bucket. My third kid opted for a combination of sorting and dumping–he’s selected his favorites, bagged those up, and then stockpiled what’s left in a pillow case.

I was telling a couple friends yesterday that I am actually looking forward to my kids being home from school over winter break. I’m not sure I’ve ever said that before.

It’s 11am on Friday morning, and our mastermind group has already exchanged several Voxer messages. Most days, Sonya, the East Coaster, starts us off with a “Good morning, how is everyone?” message, often peppered with commentary about the car in front of her or how people can’t park. Her day is in full swing, and when I see the notification on my phone that I have a message, I can hardly wait to hear what’s going to be said. Also, I’ve never found someone’s verbal road rage so endearing.

I’m in the Central Time Zone, so sometimes I’m next up, although Ashlee and Katie, the West Coasters, are more disciplined than me about waking up early. They often beat me to replying, but I catch up eventually. I have serious FOMO if I miss a message. For the rest of the day, we leave each other Voxes about everything from book marketing to health updates to marriage and kids to what we ate for breakfast. These messages are among the most meandering, delightful, sometimes hard but always grace-filled, conversations I’ve had in my life.

We’re a few weeks from the end of another year. As I look back over the last 12 months and take stock of what’s happened in the world, it’s easy to grow discouraged. Personally, my year has been exhausting and full, but relative to other years, it’s not one that’s been particularly marked by grief. Yet when I lift my eyes and consider so many others in my community around me and in the world at large, this year has overflowed with suffering. Just glance back at the headlines, and it’s obvious that suffering runs rampant.

The baby slept through the night, something my other three kids never did at this age. Maybe it won’t last; maybe it will. But I’m thankful all the same, thankful to wake up to a sweet boy who hardly cried for food but greeted me with a smile and a coo instead.

There’s a candle lit next to me, the warm light flickering as I write. It smells like vanilla and soft blankets, the latter I realize is not a smell. But it’s cozy, comforting, even restful in a way.

Like many people, I started baking a lot more after the pandemic started. While I have yet to jump on the sourdough bandwagon, I did find myself mixing flour and sugar and butter together on a much more regular basis than I used to. When I’d scroll through my Instagram feed, it was obvious I wasn’t alone in that practice.

Why do we do that? Why do we find ourselves with a big mixing bowl and a spatula and a newfound desire to use our ovens?

Science, so I’ve heard, has a lot to say about what sugar and carbs do to our brains and bodies (like increasing dopamine levels, which brings us pleasure but is also why practicing moderation is necessary). Yet then why do we sometimes find satisfaction in baking, even when we’re not the ones to eat the fruits of our labor? Why does the act of making cookies or bread or whatever else seem to bring some sense of comfort?

I’ve had this recipe sitting in my drafts for months, waiting to get posted. But every time I’ve gone to write and publish, I don’t have the words. It’s not because of the recipe itself. This granola has become one of my go-to, simple, make-ahead breakfasts. It’s because when the world feels like it’s falling apart, why bother posting about granola?

It feels dumb, honestly.

I’ve shared about this tension before, about how it’s strange to do ordinary, mundane things when people are deeply suffering. I want to fix it, to make a difference, to bring about real, lasting change.

Last year around this time, the Coffee + Crumbs team brainstormed how we’d “pivot” our annual Mother’s Day Brunch. We ended up taking the brunch where everything else went: online. We laughed, cried, sat in front of our screens eating breakfast for one and drinking solo mugs of coffee, brunching via Zoom.

It was not what we originally planned, but we are moms. We know how to adapt. We know how to change a diaper in the back of the minivan with only Chick-Fil-A napkins found in the car door to use as wipes. We know how to pull out leftovers from the fridge and pantry, cut them into small bites and proudly proclaim, “It’s snack dinner tonight!” We know how to convince our hurting preschooler that his doctor visit is going to be a fun date with mom (or at least it will end with donuts).

I’ve been feeling almost paralyzed lately, not sure what to do or write, uncertain how to handle all that’s going on in the world. As I’d sit there unable to wade through everything, the dishes piled up, my kids fought, and my very real, ordinary life continued to go on–whether I was ready or not.

This morning, I sat down with a cup of coffee and my journal. Pen in hand, I started to unravel the threads in my heart and mind. I started to put it on the page and pray through it all.

And I started to reset.

There are days–even weeks, months, or years–when we need to set some of our normal life aside to handle whatever new thing life has thrown at us. Then, there are days when we need to put our pen to paper, feet to the floor, hands to work…and get back at it.

“This is the best day ever!”

My kids have taken to shouting that hyperbolic statement nearly any time they do something they enjoy. Eating ice cream, riding bikes, going to a friend’s house—these all apparently deserve the title of “best day ever.”

The pendulum swings just as far in the other direction, of course. There are about a hundred activities that can cause them to declare any given day the worst ever—eating cooked carrots, having to clean their rooms, not being allowed to play with the hose at 8am when it’s 50 degrees outside, wearing shoes that fit. Who knew that last one could so easily result in a three-year-old naming an otherwise normal Thursday “the worst day ever.”

I ate a bowl of leftover cheese crackers for breakfast. I didn’t feel like making food for myself when the kids ate in the morning, but then when 10am rolled around, I couldn’t help but forage for snack leftovers. Then my kids barely touched their lunch, so their cold quesadillas would be mine. No matter. I like their kid food, to be honest, and I don’t want anything to go to waste. But by dinnertime, I’m ready for something a bit more grown up.

I sit in my office upstairs as my youngest rolls trucks around his room and presses buttons on an electronic book. He’s dropped his nap over a year earlier than my other two kids. I’m not ready. So just like with his older siblings, I tell him he doesn’t have to sleep, but we’re going to have quiet time. He needs to rest. I also explain that it’s Mommy’s quiet time, too. I’m not shy about this.

I settle into my chair, a blanket pulled over my lap, coffee at the ready, and a book in hand. His calls begin.

Need some dinner inspiration? I’ve got 6 easy dinner ideas that only require a few ingredients—many of which you probably already have in your pantry! And there are recipes for every diet, including keto, vegan, or Whole30!

I walked into the restaurant, my pregnant belly arriving minutes before the rest of me. “Multiples group?” I asked the hostess. She led me toward the corner where a few tables were pushed together and about ten moms sat around chatting.

It was my first time meeting most of the women there. I had just joined the group shortly after finding out I had two little ones on the way. A few other twin mamas I knew suggested getting plugged into a moms of multiples group, and, to be honest, I was skeptical. I had a strong community around me, family who lived nearby, and plenty of other mom friends. But I agreed to check it out.

We were homebound with sickness, quarantined from pretty much everyone except our pediatrician. The kids had double ear infections, and I had the flu—or some other demon virus intent on making us all miserable. I was also five months pregnant, but I looked and felt like a full-term mama whale. And aren’t whales pregnant for like a year?

Did I mention it was the twins’ second birthday? The day almost passed us by, if not for the family and friends who wished them a happy birthday from a distance. We traded forkfuls of cake for syringes filled with medicine, and I never got around to getting their gifts. They’re only two, I reminded myself. They won’t remember.

They won’t remember we canceled their party and saved the tiger-striped plates and zebra-print napkins for next year. They probably wouldn’t have noticed the adorable zoo-themed party decor I ordered, anyway. The flour, sugar, and butter sat unused. I hope they won’t remember the unfulfilled promise of cake, because the only meals consumed involved dry crackers and chicken soup.

I remember a couple years ago, I made a batch of soup for a friend who had a baby. She returned my plastic containers to me not long after. Side note: when you bring a meal to someone, if possible bring it in a container that doesn’t need to be returned. The last thing someone who’s sick, stressed, or caring for a newborn needs is to keep track of Tupperware.

I should have taken my own advice, of course, but this particular time that faux pas turned out well for me. My friend returned those containers stocked with her own homemade soup. It was an unnecessary but delightful surprise.

If you love some good fungi, you’ll enjoy this recipe for Balsamic Sautéed Mushrooms. It brings out the rich, deep flavor of mushrooms in the best way. The sweetness of the balsamic complements the earthiness of the mushrooms. The recipe only takes a few minutes to make, so you can even whip it up at the last minute if you feel like whatever protein you're serving needs a little something extra.

Every Thanksgiving, I set out a dish with cranberry sauce the way my grandmother used to make it—right from the can, ridges in tact. It reminds me of her and helped us find joy in the midst of grief during one particular Thanksgiving. Of course, I like to include some homemade cranberry sauce, too, like this version with pomegranate and orange.

The last couple weeks have been filled with all the normal chaos of life—sickness, things in our home breaking or needing to be cleaned, a two-year-old very vocally voicing his opinions, skipped naps, and pediatrician appointments. It’s not been anything completely out of the ordinary—just tiring. But I find myself frustrated that I can’t seem to get ahead on tasks and annoyed at the inconveniences of life.

This is no ordinary cider. Browned butter, brown sugar, and flaky sea salt get added to a steaming cup of mulled apple cider. It's fall in a cup.

This past spring and summer, I felt stuck in a cooking rut. This activity that usually gave me so much joy left me feeling completely depleted. I didn’t want to cook for my family. Having four-year-olds complain about what you put in front of them certainly didn’t motivate me to work harder in the kitchen. I didn’t even really want to cook for the blog. I felt lost in a sea of food bloggers and writers, not totally fitting in in either space, and I felt creatively depleted.

“I can actually eat all of this stuff.”

That’s one of the greatest compliments in cooking for me. It’s become an unexpected joy to watch someone breath a sigh of relief as they fill their plate. This chicken dinner recipe is a simple one with a short ingredient list that fits a variety of diets. Serve the chicken thighs with roasted asparagus, a green salad, or your favorite vegetable for an easy weeknight meal. It’s simple and nourishing for (almost) everyone at your table.

I balance the aluminum tray on one hand and hold a paper grocery bag in the other. As I set my goods on the steps to knock on the door, I rehearse what to say. They’re good friends of mine, people I feel comfortable with and love deeply. But I want to be careful I don’t make their loss hurt more. I walk into the kitchen and the screen door closes behind me. Like a nervous reflex, I blurt out in a bubbly, high-pitched voice, “How’s it going?!” The perkiness sounds abrasive. 

Just like my kids, I have to eat a good breakfast in the morning. A granola bar just doesn’t cut it for me. I notice hunger strike just an hour or two later or a crash in my energy level if I don’t eat a protein-rich meal. But too often, starting my day with the cries of my kids means my breakfast gets put on the back-burner.

Enter the frittata. This version is hearty, wholesome, and perfect for breakfast, brunch, or even an easy weeknight dinner.

I’m usually the one behind the camera when I’m blogging. I cook in my no-so-photogenic kitchen and shoot the finished product using a simple setup in my dining room. With three little ones running around, I don’t always get a chance to get in front of the camera or snap many process shots. This time, I was able to get some process shots to go along with this simple, delicious cookie recipe!

I don’t really want to go slow. I daydream about slow evenings on a front porch (a front porch I don’t currently have, but would love someday) sipping ice-cold lemonade. But let’s be honest. It makes me anxious. Slow means fewer check marks. It’s unsatisfying and even painful. There’s no instant gratification.

In high school, I’d swing by Dunkin Donuts early in the morning to get a medium hazelnut coffee with milk. Just saying my old coffee order brings back memories. Even at seventeen, I loved the routine comfort of a hot, caffeinated drink in the morning. Fast forward about fifteen years and three kids later, and I still think there’s nothing like a good cup of coffee when you wake up. But I’ve learned a bit about this drink in the last decade and a half—like what makes a really good cup.

My mom made a broccoli salad like this when I was growing up. I still have her hand-written recipe card and used that as inspiration for this version. For some reason, despite broccoli having a reputation of not being the most kid-friendly food, I LOVED her salad. The combination of crunch and creamy, savory bacon and a bit of sweet…it was so good!