Jump to recipe for make-ahead mushroom asparagus breakfast sandwiches

Readers, I have something to confess. It might change the way you see me, but I feel like it’s time you know:

I don’t like cold sandwiches.

Sociological lessons from a church cookbook

Jump to recipe for chicken potato casserole

Of all my cookbooks, only one is falling apart from overuse: My childhood church’s cookbook. The comb binding is bent and letting the pages escape. The back cover has been gone for years. The page with my family’s go-to chocolate chip cookie recipe – marked with a yellow Post-it sometime in the 90’s – is almost translucent with grease stains. I borrowed it from my mom shortly after I moved to Chicago and promised I’d return it to her soon…about seven years ago.

I haven’t cooked from it much as an adult, but I like to have it in my collection. It is the purest artifact I have from the place where I grew up. Sometimes I pull it out just to prove to myself that no, I have not been exaggerating the importance of mayonnaise in my native culture. (In the cookbook it is used as a spread, binding agent or source of fat in salads, main courses, desserts and every kind of appetizer: dips, bites AND balls).

Jump to the recipe for butternut squash pierogies

For a long time, I thought pierogies and I were fated to be together – That something in my blood calls out to this sacred food of my motherland. That’s been my go-to explanation for why I keep finding myself with a rolling pin in my hand and mashed russets in my hair at 2 a.m., swearing I will never do this to myself again. But the pierogies know I’m bluffing. The following year, in the thick of winter, I will hear their siren song again and I will begin the cycle anew. It’s like Hades and Persephone – you know, if Persephone was a Midwestern lady with a thing for sparkly eyeshadow, and Hades was a hot ball of dough and cheese.

Or at least, that’s how I’ve framed it in the past. Pierogies have a unique place in my heart, but I’ve come to realize that fate doesn’t have much to do with it. The truth is a little more complicated and a lot less interesting. If you don’t think that sounds like compelling blog material, you’re probably right. But what choice do we have? We’re in the middle of a pandemic and I know for a fact that you blazed through all of Love is Blind weeks ago. So, grab a bowl of your favorite beige food and get comfortable. It’s time to get to the root of my dumpling issues.

Jump to recipe for spring berry fizz

Back in the social gathering age – you know, the halcyon days of six weeks ago – I used to enjoy theme parties. It’s fun to get dressed up, eat cleverly-named food and play a grownup game of make-believe for a while. Of course, a theme party is never a totally immersive experience. Most are more about nostalgia than they are about authenticity or nuance. Last time I went to Medieval Times, I didn’t get into it with my serving wench about the rampant urban unrest that led to the 1323 peasant revolt in Flanders. I was too busy stuffing my face with rotisserie chicken and rooting for the red knight to pull off the winning horse dance moves.

But that’s the appeal of the theme party – it’s a chance for an escape.

I’ve always romanticized bread baking. The process has been handed down through generations of prairie women. My mother taught me how to knead dough by hand when I was little, the same way her mother taught her: fold, shove, quarter turn, repeat. The first time I decided to make bread on my own as a young adult, I pictured myself with my nose adorably smudged with flour, filling my home with the smell of fresh bread and the pride of my ancestors.

In reality, I ended up slumped over the counter with flour smeared in many non-cute places. And I knew that if my ancestors could see my misshapen handiwork they’d be like, “I don’t know her.”