I was standing in Target a couple weeks ago with Peaches. We were there to buy a Rapunzel costume. We got lucky and nabbed the last wig, but when she saw a one-shouldered pink prism Barbie dress, she had to have it, and so a new costume idea was born. Peaches would now be Rapunzie. Barbunzel. Something like that. I loved the idea. Love that she’s taking something already mapped out and reworking it to invent something better.
This year I am doing the same with our treats.
A reader named Lauren recently asked me what my chicken feet stock recipe was. I was delighted to share it with her in my comments section and further inspired to post it here, illustrated, Hipsta style. Thanks for the inspiration, Lauren!
Bone broth, stock, whatever you want to call it, is SO GOOD FOR YOU, makes you feel nourished and your food taste fantastic. I’ve been using it in curries, stews, to cook rice for my non-Primal geezers and drinking it in the morning to gently wake up my digestive tract and smooth my skin. Calling it elixir would not be far-fetched.
Peaches and Spike high on bread
We visited our old stomping ground this past weekend. Meaning Brooklyn. Swamp Chicken grew up in Brooklyn. His parents still live there. My father-in-law is a retired pastor and the church where he preached from 1969 to 1991 was celebrating its 85th birthday. Everyone met at an Italian restaurant in Coney Island to take part in the festivities—balloons, slideshow, DJ… It was just like a bar mitzvah! And I was the token anti-Christ. I mean atheist.
Wait a—did I say Italian restaurant??
I’m going to level with you.
My vacuum cleaner broke. It was a wedding shower gift. In 1995. It was duct taped together at every sucking articulating orifice and the cord stopped rewinding and the bags were hard to find unless I went to the creepy hardware store, and, well, it finally died. Now I want this one.
Life can be so fricking lonely.
I’m a writer. Even if I don’t always get paid for it, it’s what I do. And it’s a really solitary job, even though I get so much creative satisfaction from writing and sharing and hearing from people who connect with my work.
It dawned on me this morning that in bashing romantic comedies during my previous post, I wasn’t specific enough. Because, like, I wrote a romantic comedy and I don’t want to denigrate my own work, even if I’m not exactly drawn to the genre so much these days.
Star Craving Mad was published way before I became the obsessed, admittedly rigid and oft humorless Primal mother you’ve come to know and maybe resent.
