emily’s carbonara

emma's carbonara recipe | nomad with cookies

It’s time to tell you about my friend Emily.

I met Emily the summer before 8th grade. I didn’t like her on sight. In fact, the word “nemesis” was tossed around.

I’m going to be upfront with you and admit there was no acceptable reason for my staunch disapproval. She WAS from Houston. If that weren’t enough of a reason, she was friends with OUR friend. Well, that just wasn’t okay. He was OUR friend, and how could our clique possibly allow him to be friends with another person. We’d already met our quota. Pfft.

Then…

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sloppy joes with buttery hamburger buns

bread, entree, meat | March 9, 2014 | By

In planning my first move to Europe, I had this grand delusion that it would be just like home except with cobblestone streets, architecture older than 1952, pubs full of locals drunkenly singing in unison and exotic-accented men, as those are the only reasons anyone moves to Europe in the first place.

I definitely got the cobbled streets, the historic structures, the quaint pubs and, of course, the exotic men folk to oggle. But it was nothing like home.

Perhaps underneath my cliched expectations of Europe, different was what I actually wanted. Some place new and exciting to invigorate the…

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sun-drenched pasta salad

Sun drenched pasta salad with dill vinaigrette

entree, pasta | October 8, 2013 | By

I'm not ready for scarves and crockpots. 

I didn't get the memo that summer was over. Just yesterday I was flopping around in the sea like a manatee, coated in Coppertone with the Mediterraean sun beating down on my face. Well, not YESTERDAY, but fairly recently. And, dammit, I wasn't done yet. 

I can't remember the last time I wore pants. Or shoes that cover my toes. 

What happened to natural progression of the seasons? One day, it was sunny and gorgeous. Then, a torrential and endless wintery deluge began.

The rainy winter blew in like…

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red sauce pizza

bread, entree | May 22, 2013 | By

I have been on a long, arduous mission. A mission to find the perfect red sauce.

When I was a little girl, and a teenager then a college student, there was an Italian (a term I use loosely) restaurant in my hometown that I adored for their lasagna. It wasn't a fancy place. It wasn't in the best part of town. There were no artisanal ingredients. There were gumball machines in the lobby and the waitresses were full of sass.

There was nothing particularly special about the lasagna, but I adored it nonetheless….

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