Slow-cooker bbq chicken thighs

My boyfriend is super impatient about dinner, and it infuriates me. Almost all the meals I make take no less than an hour to cook, and to an ADHD adult, that is goddamn forever. Still this has in no way hedged my habit of making a production; I braise with abandon, and when Jason asks "when will it be ready, again?" I tend to take a mite longer than need be just to let him know that good food is worth the wait. As a result, he has learned to add 30 minutes of cooking time to whatever I initially project, and I satiate his appetite with a salad somewhere in the middle just so he will shut the fuck up. After all, the kid was living on frozen dinners, canned soup, cereal, and chic-fil-a before we started dating.

Ugh, I know. You're like "Bitch, I don't know your life!"

Expensive-ass bouillabaisse with rouille and stuffed mushrooms

March Madness brings out the worst in people. I pull for Chapel Hill because I like the feel of the place, and my sister is a soon-to-be-graduate, but this is the once instance in which I hedge my emotions for fear of losing my mind. Shit tends to get superficial very quickly, and turns personal even quicker. I try to stay within the realm of "Go Tar Heels" without resorting to personal attacks on Duke fans, among them my boyfriend, his family, and several friends of mine. I know it's fun to provoke friendly competition, but shit-talking without a sense of how ridiculous it all is in the end means you're taking life entirely too seriously. Come on, guys. Don't be dickholes. Eat some bouillabaisse instead.

Spanish stuffed pork chops with mustard salad

Never underestimate the power of a brine. Even when my meat only has time for a quick bath, I dip its toes in. Brines add flavor and make even the driest-ass cuts juicy. In the case of pork I always reach for molasses because its deep black sweet soul cuts through the pig's fatty flamboyance so well. Spanish stuffing is my own indulgence- I like nothing better than to munch on marcona almonds and charcuterie and olives all de liblong day, habitually hanging round the Harris Teeter olive bar, filling up my container, throwing a few in my mouth and filling it back up as if nothing had happened. My hubris around that bar elicits a comical swagger the likes of which no employee has ever seen nor cared about.

Also, have I told y'all that baby spinach is bullshit? You will never see me cooking with it (oops, maybe sometimes). I just don't get why you'd choose baby over leaf. Leaf has texture, and flavor, and a meaty quality to it. It's big and strong like Popeye. Baby spinach is nervous Olyve Oyl with her typewriter-style nailbiting technique, nervous knees, and weirdo low-bun brill-creem hairdo. Ohhhh, Popeye.

Lattice-top blackberry tart

Mom and I saw a beautiful array of tasty berries at the Fresh Market today, including golden raspberries, which look like larvae. I didn't have quite enough of them to make a pie, so I made a tart, which I have lovingly dubbed a fart.

This grub can't even handle me right now

Right off the bat, I'm going to tell you that I forgot to scale the fish. There. Now you shits can laugh it up.

It's a bitch to get fish fillets out of unscaled fish, on the reals. I, however, like to see it as "rustic" to pick out bones and the very occasional scale while you're eating. A scale may turn Padma "Disingenuous Condolences" Lakshmi away, but I'm sure if I cooked this fish pozole for a family meal in Mexico, no one would care a bit.

I see you there, li'l scalio, going to Edglington.

Almond Joy surprise cookies aka Racial harmony cookies except all other races besides just the two

Cookies are my favorite noms with which to fux. It's not quite a dessert, but not quite a snack; it's humble, it's homey; and if you know one basic recipe, you can do a plethora of things with it. A few weeks ago I expressed my disappointment with the Top Chef crew for their inability to make a good cookie, and I stand by that. It's one thing to not be a good cook at all, but to be a chef and not have at least one cookie trick up your sleeve is unthinkable- have you never even made a batch of Nestle's for your child? It just...it flabbergasts me. The cookie for me is a metaphor for truth. It is all that's good in the world. If I had a Patronus, it would be a big, pillowy mother with halfway-melted midnight-dark chunks. If I had no home, I'd live in the house of Toll.

Pulled pork sandwiches on pretzel rolls with smoky mustard citrus aioli and buttermilk shallot rings, hot dill pickled squash

Deciding to make pretzel rolls today was a huge mistake. I was inspired by Dale's prime rib pretzel roll sandwiches on Top Chef the other week, and I lost that inspiration right around the first dough rise when I read down the recipe to the part where you boil them. "What in the very fuck is this shit?" I said to myself, slump-shouldered and quickly losing turgor. Luckily the smell of the pork butt revived me, and, like Powdermilk biscuits, gave me the strength to get up and do what needed to be done #whitepeoplereference.

Caesar salad with curry honey grilled chicken and roasted tomatoes with green olive tapenade

I recently started a new job, so I haven't had quite as much time to blog. That's a lie. I've had plenty of time. But I spend it napping, instead. For some reason work makes me want to crash whenever and wherever I have the chance- be that on a back table at the bakery or on my couch, we Bardolphs are champion nappers. We also like to eat. Imagine a wheelhouse run on gravy. Now picture three lazy fucks rolling their eyes at the wheel for even existing. This is us.