Happy Halloweennnn! Gahhhh, this is by far my absolute favorite holiday, and I’m so excited to take my girls trick-or-treating on Saturday. This will be our first time knocking on doors in our own neighborhood and, from what I’ve heard, people go all out.

Apparently there are food trucks and a marching band lol, so honestly I might just mush the kids to the side and enjoy myself.

I’m also hosting a little afterparty at my house for a few friends, and Nola and Stevie are having a sleepover too! A few of their cousins are staying the night and why am I so excited about this? The girls will pull out their sleeping bags in the playroom, I’ll throw on a Halloween movie like Hotel Transylvania or The Nightmare Before Christmas (my girls are obsessed with Jack the Pumpkin King), and let them stay up too late and eat entirely too much candy.

Basically, childhood.

In the morning, I’m hosting a very old-school breakfast for the parents: cinnamon rolls, scrambled eggs, bacon, orange juice, mimosas, coffee, tea. Nothing fancy. Just the kind of breakfast you want after staying up too late while your children mainline mini Snickers.

After that, I’m kicking everyone out, deep cleaning the house, probably taking down the Halloween decorations inside and throwing something in the slow cooker.

And somehow November 1st is Sunday, which basically means the holiday season is here. Ugh. Exciting, yes. Slightly terrifying? Also yes.

I hope you and your family have a spooktacular Halloween, eat something good and enjoy this week’s menu. 🎃

Dinner is just one more thing on a very long list of things we’re expected to figure out. The Motherload makes that part easier, with really good recipes, honest conversations about motherhood and a community of women who get it. Come join us.

Subscribe now

Here’s What We’re Cooking

Read more

Last week, I picked up my oldest daughter, Nola, from school and noticed a little piece of paper in her hand. Since starting kindergarten earlier this year, she comes home with approximately 900 things that need to be reviewed, signed, or simply praised, so naturally, I asked about it.

“Hey, turd,” I said, using my affectionate nickname for my children because apparently I can’t walk around calling them little shits. “What’s that?”

“It’s for the Switch Witch,” she responded without even looking up, as if I should know who the hell that is.

“What’s a Switch Witch?” I asked, assuming it was some classroom game or book character her teacher had introduced.

“On Halloween, you’re supposed to give her all your candy, and she leaves you a present.”

“Oh!” I said.

Welp. Won’t be doing that, I thought to myself.

Except a few days later, her teacher sent a message to all the parents explaining that the Switch Witch apparently lives in Fairyland alongside the Tooth Fairy. On Halloween night, children are supposed to choose 10 to 15 pieces of candy to keep, leave the rest on the porch, and wake up to a little surprise in its place.

Oh, wonderful. Another thing I didn’t know I was supposed to be doing as a mother.

Naturally, I did what any millennial mother in need of answers would do. I went straight to TikTok.

I searched “Switch Witch,” expecting an explanation of who this woman was and why she was suddenly inserting herself into my Halloween plans. Instead, I was inundated with videos and ads showing me what to buy for my children’s Switch Witch baskets.

Coloring books. Princess wings. Pajamas. Little toys and trinkets. Basically an entire Christmas stocking’s worth of stuff, except now we’re apparently doing stockings for Halloween, too.

So let me get this straight. My children are supposed to dress up in costumes I’ve already paid for, collect candy from neighbors who’ve also paid for it, and then hand most of that candy over to an imaginary witch who expects me to purchase an entirely separate assortment of gifts?

What are we doing?

Listen, I’m all for making our kids’ childhoods magical. I love an over-the-top birthday party and a good family tradition. I want my babies to look back on these years and remember a childhood filled with wonder, laughter, and the occasional wildly unnecessary amount of confetti.

But at some point, all this magic-making starts to feel a little oppressive.

We’ve got Elf on the Shelf, who apparently needs to change positions every night and stage something resembling a Michael Bay action sequence every morning. We’ve got Easter baskets, elaborate first-day-of-school traditions, and something called a “Boo Basket” to usher in the fall.

Somewhere along the way, simply celebrating a holiday stopped being enough. Now we have to elevate it. Make it more memorable, more meaningful, more magical than it was the year before.

And who, exactly, is responsible for pulling all this off?

You already know.

The same woman buying costumes, remembering classroom parties, coordinating the family calendar, and making sure there’s enough candy for the neighborhood is now being asked to create another fictional character, purchase another surprise, and sneak outside after bedtime to exchange her children’s candy for gifts.

Because apparently being the executive producer of childhood wasn’t enough. We needed another assignment.

But beyond the extra work, there’s something about the premise of the Switch Witch that genuinely irritates me.

The idea that my children would spend Halloween night running around the neighborhood with their friends, laughing, showing off their costumes, and collecting candy, only to come home and surrender most of it in exchange for a toy, feels wrong to me.

Why are we taking something that’s already fun and turning it into a transaction?

When I was a kid, my parents would have us dump our candy onto the floor so they could sort through it. I’m sure part of this was an opportunity to steal the good stuff for themselves, but they were also checking for open packages and broken seals.

(Side note: Did anyone else's parents have them convinced the neighbors were slipping razor blades and drugs into Halloween candy? Because mine certainly did. Also, who the hell was giving away free drugs? And which house was that? Asking for a friend 👀.)

But once they’d finished their inspection and collected their parental tax, the candy was ours.

We had a limit on how much we could eat each day. If we misbehaved, we didn’t get any. And eventually, after a week or so, the novelty wore off. We’d forget about the candy, my mom would quietly throw away whatever was left, and we’d move on with our lives.

No elaborate mythology. No presents waiting on the porch. And somehow, we learned moderation anyway.

I’m sure some families genuinely enjoy the Switch Witch tradition. More power to them. But I’m increasingly exhausted by the idea that every childhood pleasure needs to be improved upon. That every indulgence requires a healthier alternative or an accompanying lesson.

Can’t candy just be candy?

Anyone who knows me knows that Halloween is, hands down, my favorite holiday.

Of course, I love the costumes, spooky movies, decorations, and general permission to be a little weird for an entire month. But what I love most about Halloween is the innocence of it all.

For one night every year, entire neighborhoods participate in an elaborate game of make-believe for the sheer delight of children.

Adults decorate their homes with ghosts, goblins, skeletons, and giant inflatable spiders. They purchase enormous bags of candy for children they may have never met. They turn on their porch lights, open their doors, compliment costumes, and pretend to be frightened by four-year-olds dressed as dinosaurs.

For a few hours, the ordinary rules of life are suspended. You can dress up as literally anything you want, knock on a stranger’s door, and be greeted with excitement instead of suspicion. You can run around your neighborhood after dark, past bedtime, collecting sweets simply because you’re a child and it’s Halloween.

You just show up in your costume, hold out your little plastic pumpkin, and someone gives you candy.

And we adults get to participate in the magic, too. We get to remember what it felt like when a pillowcase full of candy seemed like unimaginable wealth and the scariest thing in the world was the house down the street with the motion-activated skeleton.

That’s the Halloween I remember. And that’s the Halloween I want my daughters to have.

Listen, I still believe in the momocracy. There are 364 other days when I’m perfectly happy to enforce boundaries, insist on vegetables, and remind my children that their feelings don’t run the house.

But Halloween?

Let the babies stay up too late and eat a few too many M&Ms. Let them wear their costumes around the house for three days straight and run up and down sidewalks laughing with their friends. Let them dump their candy onto the living room floor and marvel at their haul like tiny pirates counting treasure.

One day, they’ll be too old to go trick-or-treating, and I’ll probably miss the years when I spent Halloween following two little girls around the neighborhood, carrying their discarded costume accessories and reminding them to say thank you.

Until then, I’d rather enjoy the magic that’s already here than spend another evening manufacturing more of it.

And as far as I’m concerned, the Switch Witch can find herself another house.

She’s not touching my babies’ candy.

When I was a little girl, October meant the return of one of my favorite things in the world: my mom’s chili. She made it every Halloween, and the rule was that we had to eat a whole bowl before we could go trick-or-treating. Even after I grew up and stopped dressing up, I still looked forward to devouring a bowl of her chili every fall.

I’ve already shared her recipe in a previous newsletter, and God knows the internet doesn’t need another chili recipe. But, ever the competitive one, I wanted to see if I could come up with something new, a little seasonal and, most importantly, actually good.

Enter my porky, pumpkiny chili.

Shep was skeptical as hell when I served it to him and my in-laws right before heading out of town. But everybody absolutely dusted their bowls. Rave reviews across the board, thank you very much.

So that’s what we’re making this week, along with crispy gnocchi in a silky butternut sauce and a little Taco Bell nostalgia courtesy of Friday’s leftover chili cheese burritos.

I hope you love it as much as we did!

Dinner is just one more thing on a very long list of things we’re expected to figure out. The Motherload makes that part easier, with really good recipes, honest conversations about motherhood and a community of women who get it. Come join us.

Subscribe now

Here’s What We’re Cooking

Read more

I’ve always wanted three kids.

My mom had three. Her sister had three. Most of their cousins (I’m Black, so they’re all my aunties even though I think they’re technically my second cousins) had three. It’s what I knew. Three felt complete. Perfect. Right.

When my husband and I were dating, we’d spend hours on the phone imagining our future together. He wanted two children. Understandable. He’s one of two, and his mother was an only child (his dad’s family is another story). I informed him that if he intended to have children with me, we’d be having three.

The plan was simple. First baby at 34, second at 36, third at 38.

And for a while, we were right on schedule.

I got pregnant with our second right at 36, and that first trimester kicked my ass. I was nauseous beyond belief and so exhausted I could barely function. I swore I was done having babies.

Then we found out we were having another girl.

I have to admit that I was disappointed. I’d convinced myself that if we had one of each, I’d feel comfortable calling it quits. I spent the early weeks of that pregnancy coming to terms with the fact that I was going to be a girl mom until, in the plot twist of all plot twists, I got cancer.

I was about 15 or 16 weeks pregnant with Stevie when I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

During one of my oncology consultations, the possibility of chemotherapy came up. If I needed it, my doctors recommended freezing my eggs first because chemo could affect my fertility.

Infertile?

Never mind that just weeks earlier I’d been telling anyone who would listen that I was done having children. The idea that I might never have another one sent me into a panic.

I could choose to be done. I could not bear the thought of that choice being made for me.

Right then, I decided I was having a third baby.

Thankfully, I didn’t need chemotherapy, but my oncology team wanted me to wait two years before trying again. When the time finally came, my marriage was in one of the roughest places it had ever been. I didn’t feel secure enough in my own relationship to bring another child into it, so we waited.

By the beginning of this year, things were better. We tried in January and February, then took another break because I was running the London Marathon and had no desire to tackle 26.2 miles while gagging my way through early pregnancy.

We agreed to start trying again in August.

Then I accidentally got pregnant in May.

I’m a grown woman. I know how babies are made. But y’all, I really thought we were in the clear that month. I was shocked AF when those two little lines appeared.

And for the first time, I wasn’t excited.

I was sad.

My first thought was, Awww man, this is the last positive pregnancy test I’ll ever take, and it was so anticlimactic.

My second?

Holy shit. What have we done?

I’d spent years insisting I wanted another baby, and now that I was pregnant, all I could think about was everything I stood to lose.

We’d finally gotten to a good place as a family. Both girls were in school. I had uninterrupted hours to work, a little freedom, and a marriage that was finally finding its footing again.

And I remembered exactly what it had taken to get here.

The weeks of sleep deprivation. The breastfeeding anxiety. Driving around with a screaming infant because both of my babies hated the car so much I couldn’t handle going anywhere more than 20 minutes away.

Mostly, I remembered how resentful I’d felt being needed every second of every day while my husband seemed so...not.

I love being a mother. I don’t always love what motherhood demands of me.

And suddenly, I was terrified of starting over.

I’d wake up in the middle of the night wondering whether we’d just thrown a bomb into the middle of the life we’d worked so hard to build.

Was I really willing to give all of this up again?

And what kind of mother asks herself that question about a baby she supposedly wants?

Then our baby’s heart stopped.

Almost immediately, all that anxiety turned into shame.

I’d caused my miscarriage because the baby could feel that I wasn’t sure I wanted it.

I know. That’s not how miscarriages work. Having complicated feelings about a pregnancy doesn’t make a baby’s heart stop beating.

But grief isn’t particularly interested in reason.

And for a while, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d somehow wished away the very thing I’d spent years wanting.

After the miscarriage, I told my husband I wasn’t sure I wanted to try again. And to my surprise, the man who’d once been perfectly happy with two children was suddenly the one insisting we weren’t done.

“No, I want another baby with you,” he told me. “I feel like it’s missing, and I want it here with us.”

And there it was. That same feeling I’d been carrying around for years, coming from the person who’d originally tried to talk me down to two.

Now, a few months later, we’re trying again.

Some days I’m desperate to get pregnant. I want those two pink lines. I want another chance at the pregnancy I lost, another ending to a story that wasn’t supposed to finish this way.

Other days I wonder whether I even want another baby.

Or whether I just want to finish something I started.

I’m a classic eldest daughter. Give me a goal, and I’ll pursue it long past the point of reason. I’ve written before about how trying to conceive (TTC) is turning me into a massive dick, and lately I’ve wondered how much of that has to do with wanting another child versus simply wanting to succeed at having one.

Because, here’s the thing.

I love babies. Babies are easy. Give me fifteen three-month-olds over one toddler any day. I love the cuddles, the nursing, the little noises they make when they’re sleeping. Shit, I even love giving birth.

But babies grow up.

Another baby means another toddler, another kindergartener, another set of activities, homework, tantrums, heartbreaks, and needs. Another person whose entire childhood will be shaped, in no small part, by how much of myself I’m willing and able to give.

And as much as we like to pretend we’ve evolved past it, so much of that work still falls on mothers.

Most of my friends with two children look at me like I’ve lost my damn mind when I mention having a third.

“THREE? Chiiiiile. You’re better than me.”

They’re done. Not because they don’t love motherhood, but because they know their limits. They know what their mental health, marriages, and bank accounts can handle.

Meanwhile, I’m over here with two beautiful daughters, a husband, a business, and approximately four uninterrupted hours a day to myself, seriously considering starting all over again.

The funny thing about deciding how many kids you want is that you usually do it long before you have any idea what raising them actually costs.

Some women have one and realize the five they imagined was fucking insane. Others plan for two and discover that motherhood suits them so well they end up driving a Sprinter van full of children. Good for them.

But what happens when the family you imagined at 25 no longer makes quite as much sense at 39?

Back in April, when I was in London, my best friend Dani asked me that question in her own, considerably less delicate way.

“Why the fuck do you want another baby?”

She wasn’t being mean. She knows me. She knows how fiercely I love my children, but also how much I need time alone. To work. To think. To be somebody other than Mama.

She’d seen how difficult the early years were for me. How much I’d struggled with losing access to myself.

“Having another baby would blow all that up,” she said. “Potentially for the foreseeable future.”

And she was right.

That’s the maddening part.

I pride myself on being a rational person. I believe in science, reason, and making decisions based on facts rather than feelings. I like being able to explain why I’m doing something.

And wanting a third baby makes absolutely no fucking sense.

Not when I consider another pregnancy, my marriage, my career, my mental health, or the two children already depending on me.

And yet.

I feel compelled.

That’s the only word I have for it.

Like there’s someone out there. This little person I haven’t met, who somehow already feels like mine.

And whenever I imagine being done having children, I can almost hear this tiny voice.

Don’t forget about me, Mommy.

Please don’t leave me here.

I know how that sounds.

There’s no baby calling to me. No little face I can picture. No guarantee that this person I’ve spent years imagining will ever exist.

But the feeling is so strong that deciding not to have another child sometimes feels less like making a reasonable decision about the size of my family and more like leaving one of my babies behind.

And how the hell do you reason with that?

I can look around at my life, at my very full hands, and recognize that another baby might not be the best idea.

But the feeling doesn’t go away.

Which makes me wonder how much of wanting a third child is really about wanting to raise another person, and how much is about an idea I’ve carried around for so long that I no longer know how to put it down.

Because I have a beautiful life.

A husband. Two little girls who make me laugh and lose my shit, sometimes within the same five minutes. A home, a career, a little freedom. More love than I know what to do with.

Nothing about my family feels incomplete when we’re sitting around the dinner table.

Until I imagine never having another baby.

Then, somehow, it does.

And maybe that’s what I’m struggling to understand. Whether that feeling of someone missing is telling me something about what I truly want, or whether it’s simply the grief of letting go of a future I’ve imagined since I was a little girl.

I don’t know.

I’m still trying to get pregnant. Still hoping for another baby. Still quietly terrified of what happens if I get exactly what I’m asking for.

I know I have room in my heart for another child.

What I don’t know is whether I have room in my life.

And I’m not even sure which answer I’m hoping for.

I’m solo parenting this week, so I’ve honestly been cooking from my archives (I love that I can say that).

I revisited a few recipes I shared around this time last year, made a couple little updates and, damn…I can cook lol.

Anyway, I’m actively in survival mode with Nola and Stevie without Shep coming home at the end of the day so I can basically tag him in. But weirdly? Some parts of the week have also felt…easier?

CLEARLY I am not saying parenting is easier without my husband. Absolutely not.

I think it’s more that when I know there is no backup coming, I parent differently. I stop leaving things for Future Ryan to figure out and start setting her up like I actually like her.

So this week I’ve been packing lunches at night before I go to bed. Setting out breakfast bowls and plates. Filling water bottles ahead of time. I’ve also been cooking dinner until it’s basically done before school pickup, so when we get home I’m not trying to chop an onion while somebody needs help taking off one shoe and somebody else is suddenly devastated because her sister looked at her wrong.

Tiny things. But they’ve made the whole week feel way less chaotic.

I’ve also somehow convinced the girls that we’re all in this together. We’re calling it Girls Camp and NO BOYS ARE ALLOWED.

I’m letting them stay up late-ish (8:30, we are absolutely wild over here) to watch Halloween movies, and tomorrow I’m pulling them both out of school to go to the pumpkin patch with one of my best friends.

So honestly? We’re surviving. We’re kind of thriving. The house is a little messier than usual and I miss having another adult here, but there’s also something very sweet about our little girls-only bubble this week.

And because I do not have the bandwidth to reinvent dinner right now (I assume that same is true for you), this week I went back into the archives and pulled out a few recipes I already know work. I tweaked them where they needed it, left the good parts alone and called dinner handled.

Also, none of the recipes are behind the paywall this week because apparently I’m feeling generous again lol.

Come eat.

Join this community of women who are tired of carrying dinner, motherhood, and everyone’s feelings by themselves.

Subscribe now

Here’s What We’re Cooking

***Grocery List***

You can grab the full list here.

Creamy Wild Rice “Risotto” with Crispy Chicken Thighs

This is one of those dinners that tastes like you did way more than you actually did. Crispy chicken thighs over creamy, cheesy wild rice with mushrooms and broccoli, except the “risotto” is doing absolutely none of the standing-at-the-stove-stirring nonsense because we are using boxed wild rice and letting it work for us.

It’s cozy, filling and very weeknight-friendly. A little Dijon and lemon at the end keep the whole thing from getting too heavy, and frozen broccoli is not just allowed here, it is encouraged.

Active time: About 20 minutes  Cook time: About 35 minutes  Total time: About 45 minutes
Serves: 4

Ingredients
4 bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs
Diamond Crystal kosher salt, to taste
Freshly ground black pepper, to taste
½ teaspoon garlic powder
1 tablespoon olive oil
8 ounces cremini mushrooms, sliced
1 small yellow onion, chopped
3 garlic cloves, minced
2 boxes Rice-A-Roni Long Grain & Wild Rice, with seasoning packets
½ cup dry white wine
2½ cups chicken stock, plus more as needed
1 cup heavy cream, half-and-half or whole milk
1 to 2 teaspoons Better Than Bouillon chicken base, to taste
3 cups broccoli florets, fresh or frozen
1 cup shredded sharp cheddar cheese
½ teaspoon Dijon mustard
½ lemon

Instructions

1. Heat the oven to 400°F. Pat the chicken dry and season generously with kosher salt, black pepper and garlic powder.

2. Heat the olive oil in a large ovenproof skillet over medium-high heat. Add the chicken skin-side down and sear until deeply golden, about 7 to 8 minutes.

3. Flip the chicken and cook for another 2 minutes. Transfer the thighs, skin-side up, to a sheet pan and roast for 18 to 20 minutes, or until cooked through. Let rest while you finish the rice.

4. Pour off all but about 1 tablespoon of fat from the skillet. Add the mushrooms and onion and cook until softened and starting to brown, about 5 to 6 minutes.

5. Add the garlic and cook for about 30 seconds, then add the rice and seasoning packets. Cook for 2 to 3 minutes, stirring often.

6. Pour in the wine and scrape up any browned bits from the bottom of the skillet. Add the chicken stock, cream and 1 teaspoon of the bouillon.

7. Bring to a simmer, cover and reduce the heat to medium-low. Cook for about 25 minutes, stirring once or twice.

8. Stir in the broccoli, cover again and cook for another 5 to 10 minutes, until the rice is tender and the broccoli is cooked through.

9. Stir in the cheddar and Dijon until melted and creamy. Squeeze in some lemon juice, taste and add more bouillon, salt or pepper only if needed. If the rice is thicker than you like, loosen it with a splash of chicken stock.

10. Spoon the creamy rice into bowls and top with the crispy chicken thighs. Drizzle over any juices from the sheet pan.

Make it easier: Frozen broccoli is perfect here, and boneless chicken thighs will cook faster if that’s what you have. You can also skip the wine and replace it with more chicken stock.

A note on the salt: Between the boxed rice seasoning, bouillon, stock and cheddar, there is already a lot happening here. Start light with the bouillon and adjust at the end instead of salting aggressively as you go.

For later this week: If you have any chicken left, shred it and save it. It is very good tucked into the sweet potato and black bean tacos below.

Minestrone with Parmesan & Pesto

This is the kind of soup I want when I need dinner to feel wholesome but I am not interested in making my life harder. Sausage, beans, vegetables, pasta and greens all simmer together with a Parmesan rind, then the whole thing gets finished with pesto, Parmesan and a good squeeze of lemon.

The lemon matters. It wakes everything up and makes the soup taste like it simmered way longer than it did.

Active time: About 20 minutes  Cook time: About 35 minutes  Total time: About 55 minutes
Serves: 6

Ingredients
1 pound mild Italian chicken sausage, casings removed
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 yellow onion, diced
2 carrots, diced
2 celery ribs, diced
4 garlic cloves, minced
1 tablespoon tomato paste
2 zucchini, diced
1 bunch collard greens, stemmed and thinly sliced, about 4 cups packed
1 (15-ounce) can white beans, rinsed and drained
1 (15-ounce) can diced tomatoes
6 cups chicken or vegetable stock
1 Parmesan rind
¾ cup small pasta, such as ditalini or elbows
1 tablespoon Tuscan seasoning or Italian seasoning
Chicken bouillon paste or powder, to taste
½ lemon
Store-bought pesto, for serving
Grated Parmesan, for serving

Instructions

1. Heat the olive oil in a large pot over medium-high heat. Add the sausage and cook, breaking it into small crumbles, until browned. Transfer to a plate with a slotted spoon.

2. Add the onion, carrots and celery to the same pot and cook until softened, about 5 to 6 minutes.

3. Add the garlic and tomato paste and cook for about 1 minute, stirring constantly, until the tomato paste darkens slightly.

4. Add the zucchini, collard greens, white beans, diced tomatoes, stock, Parmesan rind, Italian seasoning and browned sausage.

5. Add a small spoonful of bouillon if you like a deeper, more savory broth. Bring the soup to a simmer and cook for about 20 minutes.

6. Add the pasta and cook until al dente, about 8 to 10 minutes.

7. Remove the Parmesan rind and squeeze in the lemon juice. Taste and season with salt, pepper or more bouillon if needed.

8. Ladle into bowls and top with pesto and plenty of grated Parmesan.

A note on the greens: I love collards here, but kale or spinach work just as well. If you use spinach, stir it in during the last few minutes because it cooks much faster.

Make it easier: Pre-chopped mirepoix and bagged chopped greens are absolutely welcome here. Dinner does not care who diced the carrots.

No lemon? A small splash of red wine vinegar will do the same job and brighten the whole pot.

For leftovers: The pasta will continue soaking up the broth as the soup sits, so add a splash of stock or water when reheating.

Sweet Potato & Black Bean Tacos with Lime Crema

These are for the night when you want dinner to be easy without tasting like you gave up. Sweet potatoes get roasted until browned and crisp at the edges, then piled into warm tortillas with saucy black beans, lime crema and whatever bright, spicy thing you have in the fridge.

And this is a very good place to use leftovers. A little breakfast bacon? Throw it in the beans. Chicken left from the wild rice dinner? Shred it and add that too. Suddenly random fridge scraps are dinner.

Active time: About 15 minutes  Cook time: About 25 minutes  Total time: About 40 minutes
Serves: 4

Ingredients
2 large sweet potatoes, peeled and diced
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 teaspoons smoked paprika
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon chili powder
Diamond Crystal kosher salt, to taste
Freshly ground black pepper, to taste
½ red onion, thinly sliced or diced
2 (15-ounce) cans black beans, rinsed and drained
½ teaspoon ground cumin
¼ cup water
½ lime
½ bunch cilantro, chopped
8 small corn tortillas

For the lime crema
½ cup sour cream or Greek yogurt
Zest and juice of 1 lime
1 garlic clove, finely grated
Pinch of kosher salt

For serving
Pickled jalapeños, optional
Salsa or salsa verde, optional
Extra cilantro, optional

Instructions

1. Heat the oven to 425°F. Toss the sweet potatoes with olive oil, smoked paprika, cumin, chili powder, salt and black pepper.

2. Spread them onto a sheet pan and roast for about 15 minutes.

3. Add the red onion to the sheet pan, toss everything together and continue roasting for another 10 minutes, until the sweet potatoes are tender and browned at the edges.

4. Meanwhile, add the black beans, ½ teaspoon cumin and water to a skillet over medium heat. Season with a pinch of salt and cook for about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally, until warmed through and slightly saucy.

5. Squeeze the lime over the beans and stir in the cilantro.

6. In a small bowl, stir together the sour cream or Greek yogurt, lime zest, lime juice, garlic and a pinch of salt.

7. Warm the tortillas however you like.

8. Fill the tortillas with the roasted sweet potatoes and onions, black beans and plenty of lime crema. Add pickled jalapeños, salsa or more cilantro if you have them.

Got leftover bacon? Chop up a few slices of leftover breakfast bacon and stir them into the black beans while they warm. I would not cook bacon specifically for this recipe, but if it is already sitting in your fridge, this is where it belongs.

Got leftover chicken? Shred any chicken left from the creamy wild rice dinner and warm it right along with the beans. It makes the tacos a little heartier without requiring another actual cooking project.

Make it easier: Skip any topping you do not already have. The lime crema alone is enough to make these feel finished.

Pro Tip of the Week: Cook Before the Chaos

If your afternoons tend to completely fall apart somewhere between school pickup and dinner, stop saving all of dinner for 5:30.

This week I’ve been getting meals 80 to 90 percent done before I pick the girls up. I’ll chop the vegetables, cook the soup, roast the sweet potatoes, make the crema, or get the rice basically finished while the house is quiet. Then when we get home, all I have to do is reheat, finish or assemble.

It sounds obvious, but I think a lot of us naturally treat dinner like something that starts at dinnertime. It does not have to.

If there is a calmer 20- or 30-minute pocket anywhere earlier in your day, steal it.

Last week Shep and I met with Nola’s kindergarten teacher for a check-in. We’d just gotten back her MAP scores, basically benchmark testing, and honestly, she did fine. She scored above average, which was more than enough for me given that this is literally her first time at the rodeo.

I expected the meeting to be pretty straightforward.

Okay, bullshit.

I expected her teacher to tell us Nola was a delight in class, which she apparently is, and that she was a tiny academic prodigy who casually mastered kindergarten in the first few weeks.

Turns out, kindergarten is requiring some actual effort.

Her teacher spent about 30 minutes telling us how Nola gets frustrated when she can’t immediately grasp something, especially her “seat work,” which right now means things like writing her alphabet.

Little Ms. Nola struggles with perfectionism.

Comes by it honestly. Ahem. Me.

But when she gets frustrated, she shuts down and, in her teacher’s words, becomes difficult to teach.

Oh hell no.

A few days later, I was talking to my mom about it.

“So apparently your granddaughter gets so frustrated in class that she throws tantrums, and then she gets uncooperative when she’s mad, so they’re recommending her for some extra help after school.”

“Oh!” my mom said, a little surprised.

“And that damn Stevie, I swear to God she’s going to end up in jail or something. She is so mischievous and just does not listen. I truly don’t know what to do with these kids right now.”

There was barely a pause.

“You need to take away all their little toys and stop talking to them like their opinions matter all the time.”

Ummm. Excuse the fuck out of me.

Welcome back, woman who raised me and goodbye to Lovie, the sweet grandmother who lets these same children get away with shit she absolutely would not have tolerated from me.

“Yeah. Nola’s little painting supplies and glitter? Gone. Stevie’s princess gowns? Girl, I’d threaten to throw those in the trash.”

I literally sucked in air.

Geez. That seemed way too harsh.

What about creative play? And shouldn’t we, like…titrate up? Start with losing Bluey for an afternoon before we go scorched-earth on the Magna-Tiles?

Also, aren’t I in therapy every Monday trying to heal from my childhood?

When I was growing up, “because I said so” was a fully acceptable response. “Don’t ask me another question” through gritted teeth was gentle parenting.

I’ve seen her generation’s work.

Respectfully? Not a fan.

And still, clearly what I was doing wasn’t working either.

I think that’s true for a lot of us in the trenches. I see us at school pickup, birthday parties and playdates.

We explain. We apologize. We offer choices. We name feelings. We respect bodily autonomy. We crouch down to eye level and say things like, “I can see you’re having a really hard time with this,” while a tiny person screams directly into our eyeballs because they don’t want to put their shoes on.

Or they do.

Whateverrrr.

And I believe in a lot of this.

I want my daughters to know their feelings matter, that adults can be wrong and that they’re allowed to tell me when I’ve hurt them.

But lately I’ve started wondering if, somewhere in our effort to make our children feel heard, we started acting like their feelings should determine what happens next.

Those are not actually the same thing.

We’re past the part of parenting that fits neatly on Pinterest boards. The baby cuddles. The matching toddler sets. The milestone photos and snack cups and all the cute little rituals that make you feel like you’re doing this beautifully.

This part is messier.

This is the part where you’re shaping a human being…preferably one who doesn’t turn into a dickhead.

Teaching them how to handle disappointment. How to lose. How to be bored. How to be frustrated and keep going anyway. How to exist in a room full of other people without expecting everyone else to bend around whatever they’re feeling that day.

Ideally, they’re learning all of this from fully actualized, healed and regulated parents. Which is funny, because mothers today are not exactly thriving.

Recent research found a pretty sharp decline in maternal mental health over just seven years: the share of U.S. mothers describing their mental health as “excellent” fell from 38.4 percent in 2016 to 25.8 percent in 2023.

Obviously, there are a million reasons for that. But I do wonder if making ourselves responsible for everyone else’s emotional weather is one of them.

The world is falling apart. We’re healing from childhoods that, in many cases, will never come with the apology we wanted. We’re working, parenting, managing households, managing marriages and trying very hard to become emotionally regulated adults while half of us are also staring down perimenopause.

So basically puberty again.

All this to say…maybe somewhere along the way we started treating good parenting like it means tending to every feeling, preference, protest and grievance our children have.

Maybe we’ve swung too far.

Maybe we give too many shits.

And if this is true, what do we do about it?

Well obviously I can’t make that decision for you and your family, but as for me and mine? Oh, we’re bringing some old-school parenting back into this house.

That means I finally get to say “because I said so,” which is honestly freeing because dammit, I do not always need to explain the why to a kid.

It means freeing myself from the idea that I always have to be perfectly regulated or endlessly kind, because sometimes the consequence of an action is that Mama is pissed and everybody needs to go to their room quietly.

It means letting my kids struggle a little. Asking them to use those big brains I grew in my body before asking to borrow mine (barely functioning as it is!) to find a toy, solve a dispute or tie a shoelace.

Of course, I’m still telling them to blow out the candles and count to 10 before reacting and it’s always going to be team bodily autonomy over here.

Their feelings still matter. They just don’t always get to be in charge.

Being their parent means accepting and enforcing the fact that we are not equals. This is a monarchy. A momocracy, if you will. Which means what their father and I decide goes.

So while I understand that you’re having a hard time with your alphabet and you don’t like the feeling of not immediately being good at something, pick up that dry-erase marker and write “J” again.

I get that you don’t want me touching your body, but I’m also tired of washing shit streaks out of your underwear, so…sorry, kid. Sometimes Mama still has to help you wipe your ass.

Because the goal isn’t to raise kids who never have to be uncomfortable, disappointed or told no.

It’s to raise people who can withstand adversity, defeat and less-than-ideal circumstances and still remain kind.

Kids who know what you would and wouldn’t go for so deeply in their bones that eventually they don’t need you standing there telling them.

At some point, you’re trying to become the voice in their head.

Their conscience. Their internal compass. The little voice that says, Girl, you know better, even when you aren’t in the room.

It’s a big ass job.

And maybe a lot of it is learning to thread the needle between what’s best for them and what feels best to them.

That’s the tension.

I’m okay with not being Nola and Stevie’s little friend right now. The role of mother, the actual job of parenting, is a heavy one.

It’s a little like Moses leading people toward the Promised Land. You keep walking without ever fully knowing if every turn is right, while accepting that you may never get to see the finished version yourself.

Our job is just to get them a little farther than we were.

Which sounds noble and beautiful until one of them is screaming because you asked her to put on socks and the other one is crying because her sister looked at her “weird.”

So maybe the job is a little less Moses and a little more middle management.

Maybe some days I’ll explain the why, validate the feeling, offer two choices and let them feel empowered and emotionally safe and deeply seen.

And maybe some days I’ll say, “because I said so,” say no to screen time and send everybody to their rooms.

Balance.

That’s what we’re calling it.

Because I still don’t want to parent exactly like my parents did.

But I also don’t think I need to reject everything they did just because it came from them.

As much as I hate to admit it, some of it worked and was necessary.

Maybe some of the stuff I swore I’d never say was less about control than I thought and more about being the adult in the room.

Which is annoying.

Because if that’s true…

Oh shit.

Does that mean my mom is right again?

If you were to casually walk into my kitchen and start opening drawers and cabinets, you’d likely think one thing: Jesus Christ, does this woman really use all this shit?

And the answer is absolutely yes…and no lol.

I started my culinary career in 2016, and in the decade since, I’ve amassed almost every pot, pan, spatula, whisk, bowl and appliance there is. And during different seasons of my life, I’ve definitely used some things more than others.

When Shep and I were first married, I loved nothing more than a long-braised something bubbling away in my Le Creuset Dutch oven (though I also own Staub’s same-sized pot because apparently I have a problem). Who cared if we didn’t eat dinner until 8:30? It was just the two of us anyway.

When Nola came along, I could still get away with longer cook times, but my pressure cooker (from Our Place)? Oh my God. Saved my life.

Now, with two kids in school, this newsletter and my career in general, the way I cook has changed a lot. On a good day, I’ve got maybe 30 minutes total to get a decent dinner on the table before somebody needs help with something, somebody is melting down or I personally decide I’m done being of service to anyone.

Which made me start thinking: if I had to fuck, marry or kill my top kitchen appliances (excluding the oven, refrigerator and microwave obviously), what would I choose?

Here is my completely unimportant list.

Join this community of women who are tired of carrying dinner, motherhood, and everyone’s feelings by themselves.

Subscribe now

Marry: My Slow Cooker

I was gifted a glorious All-Clad slow cooker from our wedding registry and probably used it five-ish times before this year.

Now? Almost every meal I can reasonably serve out of a slow cooker gets served out of one.

There is something deeply satisfying about coming home from school pickup to a house that smells like dinner. It also has the added bonus of making me feel like someone cooked for me too, even though obviously that someone was me six hours earlier.

Absolute love of my life. Long live the slow cooker.

Fuck: The Air Fryer

If you had told me a few weeks ago this would be my answer, I would have called you a dirty-foot liar.

BUT then I ordered a Magnifique air fryer/slow cooker combo because what can I say, those damn TikTok ads work on me, man.

And I’m obsessed.

I know full well an air fryer is basically just a tiny convection oven. I do not care. The ability to get exactly the right amount of crispiness on my braised Korean chuck roast (ahem, the big kahuna recipe this week) was top tier.

I’m never going back.

Kill: My Pressure Cooker

I know, I know.

“But Ryan, I can literally get fall-off-the-bone short ribs on the table in 45 minutes with this.”

Yep.

But somebody has to die, so…bye.

I realized that almost everything I used to pull out the pressure cooker for, I just don’t anymore. Rice? I got a rice cooker. And honestly now I mostly use the microwavable rice from Costco anyway. Braises? If I plan even slightly ahead, my slow cooker already does the job and does it well.

So yeah. Pressure cooker, thank you for your service.

Anyway, that’s my list. What’s yours?

Now, on to the recipes.

Here’s What We’re Cooking

Read more

A few weeks ago, my sister-in-law Alex—or, more appropriately, my former sister-in-law—sent me a text:

“How would we feel about hanging out on 9/22? My layover back home goes through Atlanta.”

I shot back almost immediately: “Yes. Don’t ask dumb questions.”

Then I invited her to spend the night.

She was traveling back to the States from an Eat, Pray, Love trip to Bali, which I had been obsessively following through her Instagram stories.

A few days later, she showed up at our house. Shep and I ran out to meet her on the porch, showed her to her room upstairs and gave her a little time to settle in. Then she and I walked down the street to pick Nola up from school.

Nola had no idea her beloved Auntie Yuckie—a nickname with absolutely no reasonable origin—was in town.

When Nola came through the double doors and spotted her aunt sitting there, she broke into a run and flew straight into her arms. They both looked ecstatic, yes, but also…relieved. Like a pair of long-distance besties finally reunited.

The whole evening, she and the girls played dress-up and made ridiculous little videos. Everybody had a blast.

The next morning, the three of us walked to school. Nola held her aunt’s hand when she spotted her favorite crossing guard.

He looked at me, then at her.

“Is that your sister?” We looked at each other for a second. “Yeah,” we said in unison, and kept walking.

Because at 7:24 in the morning, explaining that no, actually, she’s the ex-wife of my now-estranged sister felt like a little too much information for the crossing guard.

But also because, for a second, I liked the answer. For a second, it felt like I had a little sister again.

And I really miss having one.

She’s alive and, I hope, well. But I miss the intimacy of it. And if I’m honest, I miss the responsibility of being someone’s big sis too.

I didn’t realize how much being a big sister had become part of who I was until my relationship with mine fell apart.

And I definitely didn’t realize that raising my own daughters would make what happened between her and me feel, in some ways, even more devastating.

I remember the day I brought Stevie home from the hospital. I was so nervous that her big sister wouldn’t react well or that she’d be jealous.

But the first thing Nola said when she peeked at the little baby wrapped in her father’s arms was, “Can I hold her?”

I started crying and immediately called my sister.

“They’re just like us,” I sobbed on FaceTime, proudly watching my newly minted oldest daughter stare lovingly at her own little sister.

Except there is no “us” anymore. Or at least not that us.

My sister and I had a massive falling out last year, and haven’t spoken since. I don’t have much interest in litigating it here (though I kinda already wrote about it). There are, of course, people who will read this piece and think, Girl, life is too short. Y’all should just make up.

But it isn’t that simple.

Even if we reconciled tomorrow, the relationship we had before is gone.

The one where we called each other six times a day and stayed on the phone for either ten minutes or three hours just because we wanted to be near each other. The one where she knew every nanosecond of my day and I knew hers. The sister trips. The belly laughs until we cried. Sending each other movie trailers because we knew exactly what the other person would love. The language that only the two of us spoke.

That version of us fell apart too.

And if I spend too much time thinking about it, the weight of that loss takes my breath away.

Maybe that’s why watching my daughters become sisters feels so beautiful and, sometimes, so fucking sad.

Every day, I get to watch a new “us” forming right in front of me.

They fight, obviously. Over toys. Over who gets to sit where. Over absolutely nothing. The oldest gets annoyed when the youngest copies her, and I’m pretty sure most days the youngest spends an ungodly amount of time trying to figure out exactly how to piss her sister off.

But underneath all of that, something that belongs only to them is forming.

Their own jokes. Their own games. Their own language. Their own tiny history being built in real time.

I watch them instinctively look out for the other. I watch Stevie advocate for her sister by reminding me that Nola doesn’t like noodles with sauce, only cheese. I watch Nola come home from school excited to show Stevie how to write the little ‘T’. Sometimes I find myself standing just outside whatever world they’re in together, watching them and feeling this enormous ache in my chest.

Because I remember.

I know how good this can be. How safe it can feel.

I know what it’s like to have another person in the world who knows your childhood because she lived inside of it with you. Someone who understands the family lore without needing the backstory. Someone you can call and say three words to and somehow she knows the entire story.

I had that.

And I miss it so. fucking. much.

There is something strange about raising sisters when you no longer have a relationship with your own. I want so badly for my girls to have this forever, while also knowing firsthand that being sisters doesn’t guarantee that you will.

I can nurture it. I can teach them to be kind to each other and make room for each other and apologize when they screw it up. I can remind them that their sister is one of the very few people on Earth who will remember who they were before they became whoever they’re eventually going to be.

But I can’t promise them forever; that’s up to them.

Which brings me back to that walk to school.

Because after the crossing guard asked if Alex was my sister, I kept thinking about why saying yes had felt so good.

At first I thought it was obvious: I miss my little sister, so for a moment it was nice to pretend I had one again.

But I don’t think that was all of it. I think I miss being a big sister. That job. That place in somebody’s life.

And somewhere along the way, I had confused my relationship with my sister falling apart with that part of me disappearing too.

Except apparently it didn’t.

I big-sister the hell out of my friends.

I check in. I feed people. I’m a mother hen. I worry. I protect. I give advice nobody asked for (for example, this newsletter lol). I want to know you made it home safely, and yes, you absolutely need to text me when you do.

I want everybody taken care of.

And sure, some of that probably comes from spending way too much of my life feeling responsible for everybody around me. We can unpack that another day.

But some of it is just me.

I am a big sister.

I became one when I was a little girl myself, and apparently the job got so deeply embedded in me that even when the relationship that gave me the title fell apart, the title stayed.

So no, she isn’t actually my little sister. And the crossing guard had absolutely no idea he was casually triggering an entire existential crisis before most people had even finished their first cup of coffee.

But for one walk to school, I got to say she was.

And I think what felt so good wasn’t pretending I had a little sister again.

It was remembering that I am still a big one.

Happy first week of October. We made it, those of us who are insanely in love with autumn.

I’m typing this to you on the first day of arguably one of the least problematic months of the year…in a sweater. The windows are open, I have a bowl of warm soup next to me and all is well (i.e. the kids are at school).

I’m not really one for subtlety, so this week’s meals are hitting you directly over the head with pumpkin.

Join this community of women who are tired of carrying dinner, motherhood, and everyone’s feelings by themselves.

Subscribe now

Yep. One can of pumpkin purée. Three very different, very pumpkiny dinners.

First up is a pumpkin curry that is very, very (verrrrrry) loosely inspired by my friend ’s amazing My Two Souths cookbook. Definitely one for the arsenal, because I’ve never had anything from this woman that even remotely sucked.

Next up is a gorgeous pumpkin fettuccine that legitimately tastes like you spent at least $45 on it at a restaurant. Plus money for a sitter. And honestly? Worth every penny.

And lastly, soup because…ahem…it’s soup season.

I promise nothing here is remotely syrupy-sweet, nothing tastes like dessert pretending to be dinner and by Friday you will not be looking at me like, “Pumpkin? Again?”

Matter of fact, I guar-an-damn-tee it.

One can. Three dinners. Let’s get to the recipes.

This pumpkin curry was insane and honestly my favorite recipe of the week.

Here’s What We’re Cooking

Read more

I’ve worn the same size jeans since leaving for college. A size 26. No matter the brand (more or less), the cut or the color, a 26 has slid up my thighs and over the curves of my average ass for two decades.

Even after two pregnancies, it only took a few weeks before the jeans waiting patiently in my closet fit again.

Until they didn’t.

After my last pregnancy, even though I “only” made it to 10 weeks before having a miscarriage, my jeans still don’t fit. I gained about 14 pounds while pregnant, something I was actually proud of since I struggled to gain weight with both of my daughters. For weeks, I walked around joyfully calling myself Big Mama, admiring the way the weight had made my hips rounder and upgraded my ass from average to, if I may say so myself, above average.

And then there was no heartbeat anymore.

But the weight remained.

I assumed it would come off within a few weeks. More than two months later, it’s still stubbornly hanging on.

So I bought new jeans.

If you’re not from Atlanta, you probably won’t care about this next detail, but there’s a shopping center in Buckhead where you can hit Ulta, Nordstrom Rack, Bloomingdale’s Outlet and Saks Off 5th in one trip. In short: heaven.

I headed there figuring somebody had to have a pair of jeans that fit me and didn’t cost a bajillion dollars.

I walked into Saks (they were having a 40 percent off sale, btw, and I lost my shit) and headed straight toward the denim.

Then I did something I’ve basically never had to do.

I walked past my normal size.

I grabbed the next size up and started pulling anything that looked like it might work for the body I have now: high-waisted, looser through the thighs, straight leg. By the time I was done, I was carrying what felt like a solid quarter of their jean inventory.

I headed into the fitting room, hung everything up, slid the curtain closed and did what very few women approaching 40 enjoy doing.

I took a good, hard look at my body under fluorescent lighting.

I took stock.

My thighs, which never used to touch, seem to be very well acquainted these days. My stomach is softer. My hips are rounder. There’s more of me than there used to be.

There have been seasons of my life when I refused to meet the truth of my body in the mirror.

Times when I showered in the dark or undressed under the covers because I didn’t want to look at the Cheshire-cat smile carved underneath my left breast after my mastectomy.

Times when I couldn’t stand to look at my stomach after my miscarriage because my baby was gone and somehow my body still looked pregnant.

But not that day.

That day, I just looked.

At the softness around my stomach where my babies grew. At thighs that are thicker than they used to be. At a new plump booty that my husband cannot stop touching and will, frankly, probably be responsible for getting me pregnant again.

And then I reached for one of the new pairs.

One leg. Then the other. They slid up easily. Over my thighs. Over my hips. Over my ass. I buttoned the waist, pulled up the zipper and looked at myself again.

Relief. That’s what I felt. Relief.

The jeans fit me. The new me.

There is a strange comfort in facing that reality, I think. The version of me who wore those old jeans is gone and in her place is a fuller woman. Physically, yes, but in pretty much every other way too.

And I like her.

She’s softer in some places and harder in others. She has better boundaries. She knows herself more. She’s survived enough shit to know what actually deserves her energy and, increasingly, what doesn’t. The jeans I bought a few years ago just don’t fit the woman walking into the next 20, and instead of being devastated by that, mostly I’m just...okay with it.

That feels strangely rebellious at the moment.

We seem to be entering another era where women are being encouraged to get smaller. Thin bodies are everywhere again. So are GLP-1s, before-and-afters and conversations about losing the last however-many pounds. I don’t begrudge another woman whatever she chooses to do with her body. God knows I’m still figuring out my relationship with mine.

But I have started questioning why, at nearly 40 years old, I was expecting this body to keep the same measurements it had when I left for college.

Maybe I’ll lose the 14 pounds. Maybe I won’t. I may get pregnant again and gain another 30. My hormones will change. My body will age. Gravity will continue doing whatever disrespectful shit gravity has planned for me. None of us actually gets to freeze ourselves at the version we liked best.

And I think that’s what buying the jeans finally made me understand.

There have been plenty of moments when I have looked at my body and wanted it to be different. But acceptance doesn’t require loving every single thing you see.

Sometimes it’s just refusing to spend another morning standing in your closet, uncomfortable and pissed off, waiting for an old version of yourself to come back.

Maybe you just buy the fucking jeans.

Mine are a size bigger.

They fit great.

This week we’re doing something I want to start doing a lot more around here: cooking once and making that work stretch across a few dinners.

Because honestly, I love cooking. I do not love having to come up with a completely new idea for dinner every single night like some sort of short-order cook with no union protection. Also these grocery prices are whack as hell.

So this week, we’re roasting two chickens. You’ll eat one for dinner, then use the leftover meat to make two completely different meals later in the week.

One big cook. Three dinners. Consider this dinner insurance.

Join this community of women who are tired of carrying dinner, motherhood, and everyone’s feelings by themselves.

Subscribe now

A few Sundays ago, I hosted my usual family dinner for our friends. I was running dangerously low on ideas because Shep and I had spent the afternoon celebrating our anniversary over a pretty boozy brunch and I was also…tipsy.

Pasta, as always, to the rescue.

I made spaghetti and meatballs, Caesar salad and an aggressively garlicky garlic bread. Everything was divine, but when I was cleaning up after dinner, I realized I still had a pretty good amount of the butter I’d made for the bread.

It was essentially a compound butter, which sounds fancy but is really just softened butter mixed with herbs, aromatics and whatever seasonings you like. If you have a stick of butter on the counter and some sad-ass herbs slowly dying in the back of your refrigerator…make some.

Put it on bread. Vegetables. Steak. Fish. Chicken. Future you will be very pleased.

Anyway, Mondays are usually clean-out-the-fridge dinner nights around here (or “go for what you know,” as we call it), except there was basically nothing left to clean out.

I opened the freezer, saw a whole chicken and remembered the leftover garlic butter.

And an idea was born.

I chopped a couple anchovy fillets into the butter because y’all already know I love an anchovy/fish sauce situation. And before anyone panics: the chicken does not taste like fish. The anchovies melt into the butter and leave behind all that salty, savory, why is this so damn good? flavor.

About 45 minutes later, I had a deeply golden, crispy-skinned roast chicken sitting over a pan of buttery potatoes.

And the kids ate it without saying a word. Around our dinner table, this is basically the burning bush. A direct message from God himself that dinner was, in fact, delicious.

This might be my favorite roast chicken I’ve ever made. In fact, it’s officially replacing my previous staple (which you can still find here if you love her).

But the best part is what happens next.

This week, that roast chicken turns into:

Dinner 1: Garlic-Anchovy Butter Roast Chicken with Crispy Potatoes

Dinner 2: Chicken Pot Pie with Creamy Mushroom Filling and Gruyère Crust

Dinner 3: Crunchy Fall Chicken Salad with Cabbage, Herbs, Golden Raisins and Toasted Almonds

Three dinners that actually feel like three different dinners, without you starting from zero every night.

Also: save the bones and the chicken backs. We’re spatchcocking the chickens (i.e. cutting out the backbone), which means you’ve basically got the beginnings of homemade stock sitting right there.

I fear cold season is just around the corner so, in the immortal words of Scar:

Here’s What We’re Cooking

Read more

In my mid-ish 20s I came across the book The Alchemist and was changed. Like deeply.

It was 2012 and I was fresh out of a two-year relationship that never quite felt like the right fit. I’d just signed a new lease with a girlfriend for this gorgeous two-bedroom condo in the part of town I wanted to live in. Got a new job that paid literally double the salary I’d been making working as a press assistant on Capitol Hill for former California Senator Barbara Boxer. And I was in love. Crazy in love with a man who I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with.

In short, I was incandescent…literally shimmering with joy.

So when The Alchemist found me and I read, arguably, its most famous quote about the universe conspiring to help you get what you want, I was sure it was true.

How could it not be? Look at my life.

Even before that moment, I’d always felt marked by luck. Destined for it. I was the luckiest girl I knew.

Prime parking spot in front of the packed club on a Saturday night? Yep. Me.

Crumpled up $100 bill on the ground by the gutter? Me.

Running 15 minutes late to work and somehow managed to get every green light on the way there? Yep, you guessed it. Also me.

What’s that saying? Favor ain’t fair?

Well it isn’t.

And I had it.

Then I lost it.

I was on the phone with my best friend Dani (clearly I’m obsessed with her because I talk about her damn near every week), and I told her something I’m honestly ashamed of.

Lately, I’ve been feeling jealous. No. Straight-up green with envy when I see certain people get certain things I want.

“I just feel like I used to have an easier go of it,” I said while making a cup of coffee. “Like things used to go my way and now I’m in a losing season. It feels like I pissed some higher power off and I’m trying to figure out how to fix it.”

“Omigod Ryan,” she gasped. “I feel like you literally just told me you still believe in Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.”

“You really believe in luck? Like you actually believe things happen to people because they’re lucky or unlucky?”

Yes.

And I need to find whatever salt I didn’t throw over the correct shoulder, mirror I might have broken or fucking Instagram meme I didn’t pass along to fix it.

That same day I was talking to another girlfriend and told her I genuinely feel shame around coveting.

Read more

We’re in that weird part of the year where I think most of us are ready for the temperatures to actually drop. We’re days away from it technically being fall andddd it’s still blazing hot outside and who wants to cut on the oven to cook literally anything?

I love summer produce and fruit. Like I’m genuinely sad to see them go. But I adore fall cooking techniques. Think 3-hour braises, slow cooker meals, hearty stews, gravies and all that good stuff. Of course you can do all of this when it’s still 85 degrees outside…but YUCK.

Join this community of women who are tired of carrying dinner, motherhood, and everyone’s feelings by themselves.

Subscribe now

Also contrary to popular belief, the best time to actually crank up your grill is autumn. No more risking heat stroke just to smoke a chicken.

Anyway, this week’s recipes straddle the line between seasons. We’ve got a braised turkey dish nestled into collard greens, a not-so-basic soup and a sheet pan fish situation that was so good I grabbed the last of the seconds before anyone else could even ask for them.

I will take your high praise and thank yous in advance…especially for the soup, which is literally just dumping all the leftovers from your braised turkey into a pot, adding a can of butter beans and pouring chicken stock over the whole thing.

Am I eating it right now while actively writing this? Yes.

Is it actually good? Fuck yes.

Anyway, on to the recipes.

Here’s What We’re Cooking

Read more

Active time: 15 minutes  Cook time: 20 minutes  Total time: 35 minutes
Serves: 4

Ingredients
For the taquitos
10 to 12 small corn tortillas (you can use flour but I’m judging you)
3 tablespoons neutral oil, divided, plus more as needed
1 medium zucchini, finely diced
1 garlic clove, finely minced
½ teaspoon ground cumin
½ teaspoon smoked paprika
1½ cups leftover black beans
1½ cups chopped or shredded leftover jerkish chicken
2 scallions, thinly sliced
Juice of ½ lime
1½ cups shredded Monterey Jack cheese, divided
Diamond Crystal kosher salt, to taste

For the lime yogurt
½ cup full-fat Greek yogurt
Juice of ½ lime
Pinch Diamond Crystal kosher salt
1 to 2 tablespoons water, as needed
2 tablespoons chopped cilantro, optional

For serving
Leftover mango slaw
Fresh cilantro
Lime wedges
Sliced avocado, optional
Hot sauce, optional

Instructions

1. Preheat oven to 425 degrees, or 400 degrees if using convection bake.

2. Line a large sheet pan with parchment paper or foil and lightly coat with nonstick cooking spray.

3. Heat 1 tablespoon neutral oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat.

4. Add the zucchini, season lightly with salt and cook for 5 to 7 minutes, stirring occasionally, until browned and most of its moisture has cooked away.

5. Add the garlic, cumin and smoked paprika and cook for about 30 seconds, or until fragrant.

6. Add the black beans and 2 tablespoons water.

7. Use the back of a spoon or potato masher to roughly mash about half of the beans. The mixture should hold together but still have plenty of whole beans and texture.

8. Remove the skillet from the heat and stir in the leftover jerkish chicken, scallions and lime juice.

9. Taste the filling before adding more salt. The chicken, beans and cheese are already bringing plenty to the party.

10. Let the mixture cool for a few minutes, then stir in 1 cup of the Monterey Jack.

11. Wrap the tortillas in damp paper towels and microwave for 30 to 60 seconds, or just until warm and pliable. Keep them covered while you work so the corn tortillas don’t dry out and start acting disrespectful.

12. Spoon about 2 to 3 tablespoons of filling in a line toward one side of each tortilla.

13. Roll each tortilla tightly around the filling and arrange seam-side down on the prepared sheet pan.

14. Drizzle or generously brush the taquitos with the remaining 2 tablespoons neutral oil, adding a little more if needed. Don’t be stingy here. The oil is what helps them actually crisp instead of just becoming hot tortillas.

15. Sprinkle the remaining ½ cup cheese over the tops, if you want a few crispy cheesy edges.

16. Bake for 15 to 20 minutes, without flipping, until the tortillas are crisp and deeply golden around the edges.

17. While the taquitos bake, add the Greek yogurt, lime juice and salt to a small bowl.

18. Stir in enough water to loosen the yogurt into a creamy dipping sauce, then add the cilantro, if using.

19. Serve the hot taquitos with lime yogurt, leftover mango slaw, cilantro, lime wedges, avocado and hot sauce, if using.

Make it easier: Make the filling and roll the taquitos earlier in the day, then cover and refrigerate them right on the sheet pan. Drizzle with oil just before baking so they still get properly crisp.

Leftover remix: If somehow you still have taquitos left, reheat them in the air fryer or a 400-degree oven until crisp again. Please do not microwave them into little tortilla socks.

Okay this was the family favorite dish of the week and I think it might be in your house as well. This pasta sits right in that sweet spot between creamy and fresh. The zucchini gets cooked down until golden and almost jammy, pancetta brings the salty crispy bits, and Greek yogurt makes a tangy, ridiculously silky sauce without needing a carton of cream. Lemon, Parmesan and an unreasonable amount of basil keep the whole thing firmly in late summer (I still have so much growing in my garden).

Active time: 15 minutes  Cook time: 20 minutes  Total time: 30 to 35 minutes
Serves: 4 to 5

Ingredients
1 pound rigatoni
4 ounces pancetta, diced
2 medium zucchini, halved lengthwise and sliced into ¼-inch half moons
4 garlic cloves, thinly sliced or finely minced
½ teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes, optional
Diamond Crystal kosher salt, to taste
Freshly ground black pepper, to taste
¾ cup full-fat Greek yogurt
¾ cup finely grated Parmesan, plus more for serving
Zest of 1 lemon
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1 packed cup fresh basil leaves, divided
1 to 1½ cups reserved pasta water
Extra-virgin olive oil, as needed

Instructions

1. Bring a large pot of generously salted water to a boil.

2. Add the pancetta to a large skillet over medium heat and cook for 5 to 7 minutes, or until golden and crisp.

3. Transfer about one-third of the pancetta to a small plate for finishing, leaving the rendered fat in the skillet.

4. Increase the heat to medium-high and add the zucchini. Season lightly with salt and black pepper.

5. Spread the zucchini out as much as possible and let it cook without constantly moving it around. Cook for 6 to 8 minutes, stirring occasionally, until deeply golden in spots and some of the zucchini is soft and almost jammy.

6. Add the garlic and crushed red pepper flakes, if using, and cook for about 1 minute, or until fragrant. Reduce the heat to low.

7. Add the rigatoni to the boiling water and cook until just shy of al dente.

8. Before draining the pasta, reserve at least 1½ cups of the pasta water.

9. Add the Greek yogurt, Parmesan, lemon zest, lemon juice, a generous amount of black pepper and about ½ cup of the hot pasta water to a medium bowl and whisk until smooth.

10. Tear or thinly slice about half of the basil and stir it into the yogurt mixture.

11. Add the drained rigatoni to the skillet with the zucchini and pancetta and toss everything together.

12. Remove the skillet from the heat. This part matters because Greek yogurt can get weird and grainy if you blast it over direct heat.

13. Pour in the yogurt mixture and toss vigorously, adding more pasta water a splash at a time until the sauce becomes glossy, creamy and clings to the pasta.

14. Taste and season with additional salt, black pepper or lemon juice, if needed.

15. Finish with the reserved crispy pancetta, remaining torn basil, more Parmesan and a little drizzle of olive oil, if you want it.

Make it easier: Slice the zucchini and make the yogurt mixture earlier in the day. When dinner rolls around, all you really have to do is boil pasta and make some zucchini behave.

Leftover remix: Reheat leftovers gently with a splash of water to loosen the sauce. It won’t be quite as silky as it was straight out of the skillet, but it will still absolutely lunch.

This is not traditional jerk chicken and I’m not going to pretend that it is. It borrows the thyme, scallion, allspice and warm spices that make jerk so good, then takes a little detour through my own kitchen with fish sauce, lime and orange. The marinade blends into a thick paste that really clings to the chicken and gets dark and sticky in the oven without being spicy. The crunchy mango slaw keeps everything bright and gives you something fresh against the coconut rice and creamy black beans.

Active time: 30 minutes  Cook time: 25 minutes  Total time: 50 to 55 minutes, plus optional marinating time
Serves: 4, with leftovers for taquitos

Read more

This is loosely inspired by trout amandine, minus the capers because sometimes I would rather everybody at the table just eat the damn dinner. The potatoes roast first, the fish joins them toward the end and the green beans get a quick sauté on the stove. Then you make a brown butter situation with sliced garlic, toasted almonds and parsley and pour the whole thing over the fish before hitting it with fresh lemon.

Active time: 20 to 25 minutes  Cook time: 35 to 45 minutes  Total time: About 45 to 50 minutes
Serves: 4

Read more

This started as me thinking about chicken piccata and then immediately wandering very far away from chicken piccata. The turkey thighs get a hard sear, then roast uncovered over collards, peppers, onions and a very garlicky broth. The turkey itself stays deeply savory and Cajun-spiced; all the brightness happens underneath, where fresh lemon and a knob of cold butter turn the greens and pot liquor glossy and just rich enough. Serve it over white rice and, importantly, put some away because we’re making soup with it later.

Active time: 25 to 30 minutes  Cook time: 1 hour 10 minutes to 1 hour 35 minutes  Total time: About 1 hour 40 minutes to 2 hours
Serves: 4 to 6, plus leftovers for soup

Ingredients
6 to 8 bone-in, skin-on turkey thighs
2 tablespoons Cajun seasoning, plus more as needed
Diamond Crystal kosher salt, as needed

Read more

Turkey, White Bean + Collard Soup

This barely qualifies as cooking, which is precisely why I love it. You are essentially dumping yesterday’s whole turkey dinner into a pot, bones and all, adding chicken stock and white beans and letting the leftovers clock in for another shift. A squeeze of lemon at the end keeps the whole thing bright.

Active time: 5 to 10 minutes  Cook time: 30 to 45 minutes  Total time: About 45 to 55 minutes
Serves: 4 to 6

Ingredients
2 to 3 leftover Cajun Turkey Thighs, bones and all
All the leftover collards, peppers and pot liquor you saved
4 to 6 cups chicken stock
2 (15-ounce) cans white beans or butter beans, drained and rinsed
1 (14- to 15-ounce) can stewed tomatoes, optional
Juice of 1 lemon, plus more to taste
Freshly ground black pepper
Hot sauce, for serving, optional
Sliced scallions or chopped parsley, for serving, optional

Instructions

1. Dump the leftover turkey thighs, collards, peppers and every bit of that pot liquor into a large pot. Yes, bones and all.

2. Pour in 4 cups of chicken stock and add the white beans.

3. If you already have a can of stewed tomatoes in the pantry and want a slightly heartier soup, add those too. Do not make a special trip for them.

4. Bring everything to a boil, then reduce the heat to a gentle simmer.

5. Simmer for 30 to 45 minutes, adding another cup or two of stock if you want the soup brothier.

6. Just before serving, use tongs to remove the turkey bones, skin and any cartilage. Shred any meat still clinging to the bones and return it to the pot.

7. Finish with fresh lemon juice and plenty of black pepper. Taste and adjust the seasoning as needed.

8. Spoon into bowls and finish with scallions, parsley or hot sauce if you have them.

Optional tomatoes: A can of stewed tomatoes makes the soup a little heartier, but only add them if they’re already in the pantry.

Read more