Airports are funny places. Full of emotion. I said good-bye to my sister on Monday, choking back tears as I walked through security trying my hardest not to look like that crazy pregnant lady, all the while dreaming of the day “good-bye” means “see you tomorrow”. And yet a week and a half earlier I was over-the-moon excited to head out of town to celebrate my husband’s graduation with family and friends. Bipolar emotions—airports do that to me. 

Maybe it’s not airports that stir the emotions but rather the thought of seeing my family that lives too far away to be good. A move closer to home is hopefully in the plans next summer. Fingers crossed.

I planned on working and blogging during this extended vacation. Instead the computer stayed packed away in the computer bag and the camera stayed packed away in camera bag. We hung out in our pajamas with yesterdays make-up still smeared underneath our eyes. We ate way too many biscuits and cooked dad’s secret family recipe, sausage gravy, my brother in the background singing and picking the guitar. The sweet little babe gave everyone a good kick or two, even my sister’s dog who found a new resting place on my growing lump.

I’m slowly adjusting back to normal life which usually takes a solid week to reach equilibrium again, though I’m still dreaming about the day we’re all in Colorado hiking or even sitting in the park with these wraps packed away for lunch. Nothing fancy. Just good company and a wholesome wrap glued together with greek yogurt and avocado, with sweet hints of spring from the peas, carrots, and potatoes.

For the recipe, head over to Mint. 

Five years ago, I married my best friend. We left our homes and moved to Chicago where he began graduate school. A couple months in to the journey, I started this space. He was working and studying all the time. I quickly learned a weekend outlet was necessary for me to survive blips of boredom, and cleaning the condo wasn’t cutting it. 

I started a blog. Not a baking blog or a food blog or a craft blog. Just a general blog chronicling my journey into becoming an independent married woman. Not that I knew that was happening in the background. As you can probably guess, it quickly turned into a food blog with a heavy dose of baking.

I fell in love with the farmer’s market. Walked there by myself nearly every spring and summer Saturday morning. Saw and ate rhubarb for the very first time. Listened to the eclectic band of all ages playing in the background—from the little boy on his violin to the grey haired, bearded man with the banjo. This space was rich with culture and diversity. I dreamt of bringing my littles there one day.

Two and half years in to blogging, I caught the bug. The kind that keeps your mind obsessively running with ideas. I claimed this space as my own. Really claimed it. I designed and “branded” it the best that I could, working with a cheap wordpress template. I was a trained designer with absolutely no web experience at the time. I bought a dot com. Made my tagline “made from scratch” since I found myself saying that phrase with every recipe. And picked up a DSLR, slowly, painstakingly teaching myself to use it. I fought with the poor light in our tiny, not-as-clean-anymore condo. And learned how to write a good recipe.

I compared myself. I failed a lot. And learned even more. I got a Twitter account and started “meeting” people in this incredible blogging community. I tried to explain to my real life friends, that online friends were in fact real too. Instagram rocked my picture taking world and helped with composition that always seemed to plague me (and still does).

Four years in, we said goodbye to our first home, Chicago, and moved to Connecticut for my husband to begin his two-year fellowship. I sheepishly started my own company designing and branding blogs with Erin, weary that I could actually work for myself and survive financially. I continued to ride in the seat of safety and worked at a firm in the area. Gleaned and learned a ton there. Four and a half years in, I took that business full-time and a week later found out we were carrying our first little.

And here we are, five years in. On Saturday my husband will graduate with his doctorate in clinical psychology. I write this with tears in my eyes, partly because I’m pregnant and partly because I’m so proud and amazed. Amazed that this defining part of our journey is coming to a close and so proud of my husband for finishing well. Amazed that this space carried me through this time. Amazed that this girl, filled with so much self doubt yet enough courage could. Could become an independent married woman who went to the farmer’s market by herself, had her first taste of rhubarb, started a blog, and now a company. If you asked me prior where I’d be in five years, it wouldn’t be here. But I’m so thankful for here. For all it’s lessons, successes, tears, laughs, awkward moments, and failures. The journey has been much like rhubarb—bittersweet. But the notes of sweetness seem to be ringing a little louder right now. I’ll take it.

Recipe adapted from Eat Boutique.

PS—check out my Mint post today.

I’ve never cooked with ramps until now. A year ago, we splurged and ate at Table 52 as we crossed off the final Chicago bucket list items before moving. I can’t remember exactly what we ordered, but I’ll never forget the ramp ravioli served with our dish, that and the hummingbird cake. I should mention, I’m not a fancy eater. Quite boring actually. Take me to a bakery, and I’ll take anything on the menu. But take me to a nice restaurant, and I’ll probably turn my picky nose up at half the menu items. It’s embarrassing. And I call myself a food blogger. 

Though, somehow that night I was brave enough to order something with ramps in them. Ramps? What were they? A weird meat? A pungent cheese? A dirt-tasting vegetable? Thankfully I asked none of these questions out loud and in turn ate the most amazing ravioli to ever cross my lips.

Thus, my search for ramps began. I asked all around at our local farmer’s market. They looked at me like I was crazy, and asked similar questions I had asked myself before taking a bite. I still wasn’t quite sure what they were. “They’re green, and kinda look like  scallions.” I had seen all my NYC Instagram friends posting ramps like they were going out of style, so I knew what they looked like. But I still couldn’t pin point the taste even after having eaten the ravioli.

I never found those ramps. Until I moved to Connecticut. I only asked one guy at the farmer’s market this time. Had to maintain face in my new town. He said they’d be ready next week.

I made it just in time time to pick up one of the last bunches. I nearly missed my ramp opportunity after waiting in line to buy a croissant from one of my favorite bakers on the old PBS Everyday Food show. He owns a bakery in CT and sells at our market every Saturday. I was star struck, and may have told him I was a fan. He was kind, smiled, and retorted, “The bakery is where I make my dough, not the show.” He used the word “living” instead of “dough”, but I couldn’t help myself. I may have to eat 1,000 croissants by the end of the summer in hopes we’ll become friends. We’re not talking about ramps anymore, are we?

With ramps and a chocolate croissant in hand, I set out to recreate that coveted bite from a year earlier. Not quite knowing where to start, I did what I always seem to do, and turned it into pesto. A pronounced garlic flavor with an underlying onion taste. I finally figured out the flavor profile.

While I was at it, I decided it would be a good idea to make my own ravioli noodles, sans pasta press. They were a little on the thick side. I think it’s time to invest in pasta press. But there’s a full year before ramps will be in season again. They come in season as quickly as they’re out. Ramp ravioli—the only way I’ve had ramps. How do you serve them?

Side note—the ramp pesto recipe can be used a thousand other ways beside ravioli.  Also, this light white wine cream sauce is killer and shouldn’t be constrained to this recipe. What I’m trying to say—this multi-faceted recipe has the potential for many other recipes. Go to town with it.

How to prepare ravioli:

It’s much harder to get things done these days. More often than not, I find myself one handed. My other arm is stuck in a new posture—curved and wrapped tightly around my growing belly. Ever since the kicks started, I havent been able to let go. Even as I type, my computer makes the tiniest of hops. She’s kicking it too.

Did you catch that? I just threw in a pronoun. We’re having a little girl! Yesterday morning we saw her on the big screen—hands in front of her face, wiggling around, opening her mouth, and holding her foot. It was completely magical, and she’s since stolen my every thought. Twenty more weeks until she’s in our arms, and I can’t wait to teach her how to cut butter into flour, roll the perfect pie crust, ball our favorite cookie, and stir the creamiest risotto.

I’m a thousand steps ahead of myself. For now, I should probably just focus on making sure she has a place to sleep when she arrives, and maybe share this creamy spring whole grain pea risotto recipe with you. First things first.

For the recipe, head over to Mint Design Blog.

The recent events and happenings of life have left me recipeless but not wordless. I had to get this out. I think it’s just as important, or more, as a good recipe.

We watch the news and shudder, once again. Our bellies tighten and we hope that the breaking news won’t be followed by more breaking news. We hope it’s an accident—an insignificant accident with no casualties and only minor injuries, if that. We hope, until more breaking news flashes across our screens. The scene is grim, in fact, horrific. It’s not an accident but premeditated—by a person, not a malfunctioning machine. It’s significant. Our mind quickly files through the catalog of friends and family we know in the area. We account for our people. And then comes the anger, the questions, the tears and the like. We hold our people tighter, thankful that it wasn’t us. This time. We seek answers. We try to explain to our children what happened. Or like me, we question why we’ve brought kids into the world. This isn’t the world I want to give them. We seek solutions. What went wrong this time? What can we do to prevent it next time? What laws can we pass in the meantime? All good questions. All appropriate questions.  

But if we’re honest with ourselves, there won’t always be good answers to our questions. There won’t always be good solutions to our problems. We can’t pass enough laws to keep the evil away. Evil—it’s all around us. It’s in you. It’s in me. When we lose our temper. When we hold a grudge against our neighbor. When we hate. No, I’ve never had plans to kill a person much less a large group of people, nor do I think that thought will ever cross my mind. But evil is in me too. When we let it go unchecked. What happens? That’s the question I’m asking myself now.

My husband is several weeks away from becoming a child psychologist. He knows a lot about mental health. Far more than I can claim to know. From time to time, he screens children for suicide and their immediate threat to others. Children. It doesn’t seem fair. How could their innocent minds think these things? It’s safe to say, it’s not fair. The world as we know it is not fair.

While we were dating, I watched the movie The Sixth Sense by M. Night Shyamalan. It was a movie so beautifully done, with parallels and twists that only an artist could create. But the opening scene of the movie haunted me. And in some ways, still does to this day. Dr. Malcolm Crowe, played by Bruce Willis, a child psychologist, is shot dead by a former client. A client, most likely, with mental issues. Peering into my future at the time, I hoped this wouldn’t be our story. Irrational or not, I was in some ways afraid to marry him for fear of losing him. Losing him like Anna Crowe lost her husband in The Sixth Sense.

Evil. It’s all around us. It’s not fair when and how it chooses to exert itself, and it appears when we least expect—whether provoked by a mental illness or not. It’s hard to fathom the “or not” part. Maybe I should have left that clause out. But I think there’s something there. It’s in you, and it’s in me. When we lose our temper. When we hold a grudge against our neighbor. When we hate. When we let it go unchecked. What happens?

I don’t have a good answer to all these questions. But one thing I know—we have to keep moving. Fighting the fear and hate it leaves in its wake, making sure it doesn’t leave us paralyzed. And somehow find a way to move forward with love in our bellies. My favorite president, Kid President, says, “If it doesn’t make the world better, don’t do it.” I think he’s on to something. We can’t foresee what’s ahead of us. But we can choose to make the world better in this moment. Good. It’s in you, and it’s in me. What happens when use it like mad?

Boston, my prayers are with you and all of those that will forever look over their shoulder.

On a lighter note—Milkshakes and Malts cookbook giveaway ends tonight (4/17). Get it while you can! If you’re missing the food talk, I’m over at Mint today sharing some mighty good avocado crema.

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