Spinach & Quinoa Cake with Curried Avocado Cream (gluten-free)

We have friends in town this weekend. And you know what friends in town means. Swiffering the hair off the bathroom floor. And also: brunch! Now that we’ve awkwardly linked hair and food and I’ve lost a good number of readers, let’s the rest of us delve a little more into the brunch thing. From my (clearly very chaotic) point of view, brunch is the king of mealtimes for a numbers of reasons. A) It’s a hybrid word. Maybe the first ever. In fact, yes, I’m pretty sure linguistic anthropologists would tell you that back in the day, like when dudes-with-beards-and-leather-sandals-were-cool-Round-One, the hippest of bearded dudes woke up a little late one morn and slurred his hungry ass right into brunch. And then decided to make it a thing, which is totally warranted. Because it’s the Brangelina of meals. And just try to compete with that. 2) It’s the only meal of the day when pretty much everything is fair game. Sweet and savory on one table and eggs all around. Syrup on salty and salty on sweet. Fancy flutes of booze. And, if you live in California, the near guarantee of avocados. Schwing. We’ve done pan-fried quinoa cakes a … Read More

Power Pie Smoothie (aka Jetpack in a Glass, kah-blammo!)

Earlier this summer I turned 30. I think we talked about it. In fact, I’m pretty sure I promised you at least a post or two recapping all the celebrating (read: championship face-stuffing) we did in New York. This. IsNotOneOfThosePosts. No, sadly for you, this post is a little whinier. Don’t act surprised. Or maybe do act surprised. (Whining, who me?) The bottom line is this: I am now the glorious age of 30, and for my thirtieth birthday — and with my own crazy-lady blessing — I have been gifted with… …a half-marathon. W-T-F you G-U-Ys. How did I let this happen? How did I let this bajillion week training schedule wiggle into my Google Drive and sneak attack me with daily weigh-ins and running logs? (OK, maybe I asked for that one. Pretty sure I did.) How did I suddenly decide that running more than “to the bathroom” was anywhere near a good idea? This can’t be my doing. My conscience has definitely fallen prey to aliens. (Have you read The Host? Great, same page…) In case you forgot, a half-marathon is a little over 13 miles. Run 18,000 of them and you’re at the MOON. THE FREAKING MOON. … Read More