Before this post runs away from me, as so many of them do, I’ll just start by saying: if you’re here for the recipe, alone, I know this looks like a crapload of ingredients and steps, but I beg of you – don’t be intimidated. The allure of these bowls lies in their lovingly forgiving …
Remember that time it was 1:30 in the morning and your #SoLetsPigOut Day 3 joint post with Gina was supposed to go live in 6 hours? But then you spent a good 40 minutes googling The Bachelorette spoilers? And eating too many handfuls of Chicago mix popcorn? But really you just picked out all the caramel ones?
Hello. Welcome to my now.
We should totally be talking about salad.
When Gina and I were brainstorming the menu for #SoLetsPigOut, she was stuck in the midst of some Whole 30 BS and I was in the process of shoving circus animal cookies in my face. So when it came time to choose a main course of sorts, naturally we both honed right in on salad. Her because, um, grass and twigs and whole stuff. And me because salad later = more cookies now, and that’s the kinda math I can get behind. I mean, it’s right up there with
you! + me! = us!
To the three people that got that, we’re officially BFFs. Let’s braid hair and compare retainers. Mines blue with glitter! Squeal!
Oh haaaay guys, hope you’re all doing dandy. Dunno about you, but it’s #SoLetsPigOut Day 2 over here and I’m feeling stoked. Not only did I LOVE meeting some of the new friends that Gina sent over yesterday, but we’re talking cock/mocktails in today’s post — and more freebies for youbies. Until I managed to muck things up with the word cock back there, things were looking pretty good, wouldn’t you say?
In case you missed #SoLetsPigOut Day 1, this week I’ve teamed up with Gina from So…Let’s Hang Out to bring you guys a virtual riot of summer fun: potluckable recipes, free loot and all the pictures of me and Gina doing the my-arms-are-your-arms thing that you
always never knew you never always wanted. Like this one:
Ya’ll have met Gina from So…Let’s Hang Out, right?
(If not, she let me pick her brain pretty good in fun interview below. If you want, you can jump there now.)
(Oh ok, giveaway people, here’s a jump to the free MightyNest stuff, too.)
Today I’m super excited because Gina and I are joining forces to celebrate summer with a collaboration we’re calling #SoLetsPigOut (because we’re just that clever). All week long, we’ll be bringing you jointly-tested recipes perfect for summer shindigs, pool parties and other alliterative awesomeness plus hefty giveaways for some of our favorite kitchen essentials. And because just two girls getting interweird 2gether can be kinda sad, we’ve roped 25+ of our closest bloggy friends into rounding out the week with a #SoLetsPigOutPotluck featuring dozens of brand spankin’ new recipes.
It’s all for you, guys. Janet Jackson even said so.
You guys are going to think I’ve become completely unhinged with this one, and that’s ok. Because maybe I have, a little. I blame far too many episodes of The Mind of a Chef — or just a complete and utter devotion to forcing as much browned butter as possible into a dessert that, scientifically speaking, is kind of anti-browned butter. (I’ll explain later.)
A few months ago, Chris and I had the most spectacular meal at Manresa, included in which was a browned butter panna cotta, AKA Mindsplosion Central. I died, you guys. Ok, I didn’t die (clearly, jeesh, I don’t give you guys enough credit), but I think I uttered something alone the lines of “I could die at this moment and have no regrets” as soon as the first spoonful graced my lips. It was utterly silky, nutty and essentially browned tasting. It was nearly outside my realm of comprehension.
The single most delicious bite of food I’ve had in recent memory, in fact. And that is no small statement.
This morning I woke up certain that I was still dreaming. A glimpse outside revealed a slate sky heavy with anticipation, a thick-striped greenbelt under the window screaming words like verdant and lush that have become few and far between on the West Coast.
And then: the staticky buzz of cicadas, audible even over the light hum of the outer belt.
Ah, yes. The midwest. Again. It’s no dream.
More years ago than I care to count, Chris and I packed up our tiny college apartment just outside of downtown San Luis Obispo and dove (or rather drove) into a new life — a presumably grown-up life — in Columbus, OH. We did it for our jobs, first — and for the small thrill that accompanies decisions that are ultimately the result of late night brainstorms brimming with youthful proclamations: we’re young! we’re nimble! extra ranch and peperoncinis!
Living in Ohio was both exactly and not at all what we expected. It was opportunity — to advance our careers, to buy our first house, to explore a part of the country we had previously (perhaps selfishly?) ignored. And to forge incomparable friendships. But it was also isolation — from our families, our friends, In-N-Out Burger, literally everything that we knew as home, all of which was still back in California.
The four years we ended up spending out here taught us more about ourselves, about each other, than we ever could have guessed. Missing our families transformed into becoming each others’ family. Our boy-meets-girl story was slowly filled in with all those nothing really anecdotes that make up a history. Riding bikes in the thick of a summer thunderstorm. Shoveling — or rather, not shoveling — a drive. (Rookie mistake.) Crying over a dented box of Cheez-Its in the middle of the grocery store. A story for another day, I promise…
In case you’ve been snoozing under a rocksicle, it’s Popsicle Week all over the interwebs, and things are getting frenzied. Nicole made a popsicle that tastes like FREAKING THAI PEANUT SAUCE, for crying out loud. I think she might have just secured her spot as my new bff, which I’m almost certain was her intent when she was like, I’m gonna make me an ice pop that’ll taste real good with some cilan-lan on top.
Ok, the cilan-lan was me. But I’d like her even more if she said it. (Do it, Nicole. It’s a fun time.)
Should we talk about Amber? She shoved cookies all up in her lemony shiggies, and it’s blowing my mind. She says it’s akin to chomping on a frozen lemon bar. I mean, I guess that’s cool if you like stupid rad hybrid desserts and stuff. No big deal.
Tracy went the yogurt route. Seriously so pretty.
Ileana SMOKED — uh, yeah, sah-moked – up some peaches then got all chicka-chicka-boom-boom, will there be enough room for cream? You better believe it.
Erika milked, like, three cereals and stole my heart along the way. (I have nipples, Erika, can you milk me? Oh relax, itsaquotepeople!)
And should we even talk about Molly’s mochi matchamajiggies? That girl should be the official mascot of hapa chicks everywhere, because she makes us look goooooood. She’s also good looking. And just a nice person, or so my many hours of blog-stalking have led me to believe. Wink.
If you haven’t gathered, I kind of love Popsicle Week and can’t thank Billy enough for hosting this jam-out for the second year in a row. He’s that badbadbadbadbadboy that makes us feel so good (you know he makes us feel so good) and a kind and patient soul for doing all the heavy lifting so that the whole
37 40 of us — yep, 40 bloggers in all! — could virtually clink stick food and get to know each other.
And all of you, of course!
This morning I woke up with sunshine practically pouring out of ears, my heart lighter ‘an air and a serious spring in my step. It’s summer, you guys. Not almost summer or might as well be summer but the real thing. Warm. Glorious. And my
day planner Google Cal is finally awash with long, sleepy weekends, fancy pants dinners and aeroplane travel to places near and far. Columbus, Las Vegas, Puerto Vallarta. Tahoe, Mammoth — and, if I can swing it, maybe even a late summer roadtrip through the Pacific Northwest. It’s a lot in a little time, and before I know it, I’ll probably be one big ball of whiney woeisme, but for now I’m just gonna go ahead and bask in the glow that is a proper summer vacation.
And drink me a drink that is unapologetically literal in its celebration of the season. (Because it’s sunny yellow. Poetic, right?)
Growing up in Sacramento, summer was sticky forearms on the counter at Vic’s Ice Cream. Long drips of mint chip, the sharp, puckery fizz of a lime ricky. Tall cups of pineapple sherbet passed across the counter — sweet, frothy and impossibly cold. Blissful on a hot day, for sure. But even better enjoyed in the waning light of an 80-degree evening, plus cutoff shorts and Rollerblades. (Because, no shitting, everything tastes better on Rollerblades.)
(More parentheses: And a grilled cheesedog sandwich alongside. But we’ll save that for later. Homie can only cram so much summer into one post. No more parentheses.)