Not a Photo Dump

I have a love/hate relationship with social media.  I love judging people by their Facebook pages and Instagram uploads, but I hate seeing blog posts where bloggers just slap a whole bunch of photos I've already seen elsewhere on a new post and call it a day.  Um, do you think I haven't been following your every move?  Of course I've already seen the adorable pictures of your baby--he's adorable, I live for them and hope to one day rival them with my own.  (My children will be so big-headed I will be happy if they fit in the frame.)  So I'm trying to not be a hypocrite, but I'm sorry if you have seen these before.  I'll tell a story with them.



Food Stuffs


I have a slight problem: I'm addicted to the idea of food.  I dream about it.  I plan out meals weeks in advance.  I have to stop myself from sharing every great meal with my mom because I know she doesn't care and doesn't even like to cook.  I actually asked Nick last night, "Am I baking too much?"

New favorite at-home lunch: Nutella and banana

Chicken and dumplings from Everyday Food.  Don't act like you aren't craving them.
I came home from the library on Friday with six new cookbooks.  SIX.  What is wrong with me?  Do I think I'll have enough time for everything I want?  And where the hell is this actually going?

Honestly, though, have you heard the story about Ina Garten's start with food?  She worked for the government and found comfort and creativity in baking and cooking.  Barefoot Contessa reincarnated right here.

Library loot.  I've made it through three already.  I can't recommend Baked enough.  Get it!

Also: beer bread.  Okay, here's something crazy.  My boyfriend buys beer cases at a time.  We spend hours at Total Wine, cultivating the perfect make-your-own six-pack.  Granted, I don't really drink anymore, so I mostly cross my arms and tap my feet and wait until he's done reading each and every label.  He's going to come home with DuckRabbit Milk Stout and Bell's Two Hearted every time; why draw out the process?

So I made beer bread Friday after a friend at work recommended it.  I loved it.  (Recipe here.)  Nick, however, hated it.  He said I oversold it.  He hasn't touched it since he tried it Friday night.  Oh well, more for me.



Sunday night, which was football night to most of America, was fried chicken night to us.  Have you seen the cover of this month's Bon Appetit?  Well, if you haven't, check it out on a full stomach.  I already miss the South more than anything ever in the entire world, and then you throw in fried chicken and that's it.  I'm done.

We tried out the five-step recipe Sunday night.  It entails a 24-hour, refrigerated dry rub, buttermilk, dredging, and a whole lot of peanut oil.

It was worth it.




Other Stuffs

My mother completely understands me sometimes.  She and I are of the mindset that if you're not working on something, anything, then what is the point of even getting up?  So we create, in some form or another (see above).  

Last week I was waiting on fabric to be delivered (and still am, thank you, USPS) and decided to just make something small.  Like a dress.  For a child.  A two-year-old.  Keep in mind, I have no children, haven't seen a child in almost a year (besides in passing) and for the foreseeable future my womb will stay empty.  But when I told my mom, she got it.



Oh god, do not even look at the stitching, I wasn't paying attention when I did it.


I've had this Flea Market Fancy in my stash since 2007.  Or 2008.  Either way, it's been a long time and pink looks like vomit on me so what possessed me to buy it, I'll never know.  I got a bee in my bonnet Saturday evening and decided to make an Oliver + S Family Reunion dress out of it.  I sewed most of it Saturday night and finished up the sleeves and hem facing Sunday.  A note about the hem facing: it never fits well.  The first one I made, for Gracie last year, instructed me to cut twice as much fabric, so I had to ease the hell out of it.  This one was cut correctly but the dress was about five inches too long, even after refolding the placket.  This is why there are no shots of the back of the dress: the placket edges are eased within an inch of their lives.

What am I going to do with this?  Beats me.



Also: new sunglasses.

Fin.