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.


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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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double strength beef stock (of the gods)

Today is the day I convince you to forsake store-bought beef stock forever.

I’ll admit, there was a day when even the thought of making my own stock exhausted me into an afternoon nap. I grumbled about the cost of the ingredients, the time it would take out of my day when I could be at the movies or eating cookies and how it probably wouldn’t taste that much better than the cheap paper cartons of broth lining the shelves of my supermarket.

I was ignorant and no better than a 7-year-old refusing to try an avocado because it looks…

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coconut milk fried chicken

I’ve had a longstanding battle with fried chicken.

I have just never been good at making it. I’d burn the crust, or overcook it entirely leaving it dry, or undercook it leaving it, well, raw. It just never was that beautiful, crunchy, juicy fried chicken I oh so dearly wanted to have at my disposal whenever I damn well pleased. Cue the incredibly tiny violins.

My understanding was that being born south of the Mason Dixon line afforded me some kind of natural ability to make perfect fried chicken. It apparently does not. I’m in the process of escalating the…

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