Meatified

These strawberry white chocolate muffins are the best of both worlds: tender, fluffy fruit filled interiors with bakery style crunchy tops.

You're just a handful of ingredients away from this Peanut Butter & Jelly Granola, flavored & sweetened with your favorite preserves or jelly.

happiness in a bowl

big cluster PB & J Granola

what more could you want?

lighter comfort food ftw

chicken & smoked sausage gumbo

all about that roux

This simple roasted cauliflower soup is flecked with roasty-toasty bits, seasoned with warm spices & brightened with lemon at the end.

summery swirly goodness

lemony roasted cauliflower soup

every day is soup day

A handful of simple ingredients come together with creamy Italian white beans in this one pan, weeknight friendly & dairy free meal.

I like big batches

brothy italian beans with sausage & kale

and I cannot lie

This simple caramelized onion dip takes its time and lets the sweet & savory onions headline this party favorite. You won't regret making a double batch!

no dairy, no problem

(everybody lies about) caramelized onion dip

you don't have to share

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The further I got into sobriety, the more I realiz

Before & after // I didn’t take any photos for a $Before & after // I didn’t take any photos for a year. Sobering-up-me was a being of fractures. Sharp edges that didn’t fit anywhere, no matter how many times I rearranged or reimagined the pieces. People seem to think (or I apparently assumed) that becoming sober brings an automatic sense of the whole, of coming back together. That it’s as simple as taking away perhaps the only thing that was, in the strangest sense, holding them together in the first place. Magically yielding a version of the ‘before’ that is not yet broken in the ‘after’. Maybe that’s true for some people. But sobering me was an agonizing act of disassembly. It was heading back to cuckoo land and knowing that this time, the nest was never mine. It was realizing that I had always known I was the interloper, pushing others out of the nest to stay alive in a constant state of mimicry that became its own death anyway. Sobering-me wondered if her old creativity was another act of imitation pushing her ever closer to the edge. Hi, I’m the cuckoo, it’s me. When you’ve never known who you are, how can there be anything familiar to fly back to? For some, sobriety might be a reclamation, but mine has been a kind of excavation. Part extrication, part excommunication. I wasn’t yet a year sober when I picked up my camera again, my first foray into what may or may not be left behind. I picked something simple, a cozy soup as a placeholder to practice camera settings & styling again. But that March-cold light wasn’t what I wanted to see. I used to feel like editing photos after the fact was about ‘fixing’ them; that it was about finding what was ‘wrong’ with what I’d made in the first place. The same way that part of me wanted to portray my self-portrait last post as a sober ‘after’ without acknowledging the ‘before’. As though the after is a new version of me, as fixed as my stare. But any after cradles it’s before at it’s heart. So, just as I’ve warmed & brightened this photo to create the sense of contentment that I wanted to see, I’ve shown you the before, too. I can’t have one without the other. There’s no sobriety without what came before. No thawing tenderness that doesn’t follow the cold.$

Eighteen months of sobriety have me seeing myself,

Are you meatified?

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