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Yesterday was my first wedding anniversary, something that 359 days ago I wasn’t sure I’d ever be saying.
People don’t believe me that the idea was seeded only 5 days before we actually dove in head first and tied the knot. I talked a little bit about my reasoning in this post. But here’s how it actually went down.
On July 2nd, I met my friend and mentor Debbie on Martha’s Vineyard for a quick breakfast and long catch up. It was the first time I’d seen her since her husband Rob had been diagnosed with stomach cancer, and the previous few weeks had left them both discouraged and heart broken. That morning we cried into our scrambled eggs and talked about how they were preparing for the worst while trying to savor each sweet moment, which included a lot of the island’s finest quiche.
Over the course of our conversation, it came up that Rob had officiated an intimate wedding ceremony for their goddaughter a few weeks prior, just the four of them in their living room—the same spot where they themselves had been married almost twenty years prior in similarly intimate circumstances.
As someone who never wanted a wedding in the traditional sense, for the first time, I could feel with such clarity that this was not only something I could get on board with, but that the scenario was IT.
I asked Debbie if Rob would have the strength and willingness to do something like that for Charlie and myself. Her eyes softened, …
Like all those cooks out there who’ve had the chutzpah to admit their failures (and, presumably, those annoying beacons of perfection who have not), I’ve made my fair share of mistakes in the kitchen. Luckily, these gluten-free chicken meatballs are not one of them.
In reflecting on my errors this past week, I’d say that most fall into one of two categories. The first is careless negligence, which includes things like forgetting the brussels sprouts in the oven until they resemble something that Khaleesi’s dragons might have sneezed on. A historical favorite is the time I poured cold stock from the fridge into a straight-from-the-oven Pyrex dish, causing it to shatter/explode dramatically and my neighbors to stop by to make sure everything was okay.
Then there’s the type of mistake that’s just pure technical ignorance. Since I didn’t go to cooking school, I’m particularly prone to this genre of fails. But because I prefer to drink uncurdled eggnog and to not have to throw away 6 ramekins of sunken, nasty soufflés, I tend to stick to recipes that are well within my comfort zone. But this approach to protecting my kitchen confidence proved problematic a few years ago when I had to attend a potluck at Dana Cowin’s apartment, in honor of her book Mastering My Mistakes in the Kitchen.
The evening gathered together some of my all time favorite women in the food community, including many who inspired me to start writing about my small kitchen triumphs and failures in the first place (cough cough, Deb). For the meal, we each had to bring a dish that we’d previously failed at and had since mastered.
I had many fails to choose from…obviously. The tortilla espagnola that covered my kitchen with raw egg when I tried to invert …