Do you have a favorite herb? One that shines above the rest? I cannot pick one. To do so feels absurd, like choosing a favorite child, as though the others would wilt in the shadow of such betrayal.

Herbs, like children, have their own temperaments, their own seasons of charm. Parsley will go anywhere, quietly reliable and a cheerful co-mingler I always have growing in the garden. Thyme hums along in the background, and goes particularly with a lot of butter and garlic, content as a clam to be near the stove. Basil, I’ve found, begs to be torn and only in summer, especially when paired with tomatoes so ripe they are beginning to split. Rosemary, Matilda’s middle name, meaning “dew of the sea” adores fresh lemon and seems happiest when roasted with something pulled from the earth like a root veg or tuber.

And then there is dill. Dill does not belong everywhere, mind you. It demands a spotlight, a certain kind of dish. But when it gets its cue, boy does it sing. Verdant and bright, more piercing than sweet, dill is a soprano that can cut through the muddle of bone broth or cream. Dill, when right, is very, very right.

Sometimes when I’m in the kitchen, I’ll compose an imaginary cookbook as I talk to myself through the chopping and stirring, a slim, pocket-worn volume about growing and using herbs. Should I write this? Perhaps one day. I’ve never known an herb to ruin a dish, perhaps except fresh oregano for which I have an unshakable and puzzling distaste. Too brash, too insistent, it rarely plays well with others, at least to my palate.

This past weekend, Andrew was away in New York with his dad and brothers, and I found myself as I always do when he leaves, slightly untethered. The first night apart was almost delightful, a little intoxicating if I’m being honest. The shift in our rhythm sparks a flame: I’ll cue up a beloved film I’ve watched a dozen times (this past weekend it was the Before Sunrise Trilogy) the kind he would unsurprisingly groan at if I suggested it again, pour a generous glass of red wine, and sink into the small novelty of being alone. On these nights, I let the kids play too many video games and indulge in the freedom of bending the rules. Evenings like this feel rather rebellious yet centering. I am an INJF, after all.

But by day three with him gone, the thrill has rice paper worn thin. His absence feels like a month. Happily married and admittedly very co-dependent, I sense the house tilt in his absence. The children carry on. The world carries on. But something in me folds inward. To smooth the crease, I made soup. I miss my guy.

Enter: Chicken and Wild Rice. Not glamorous. Not French. Not even particularly photogenic. But it’s steady, the kind of soup that doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what it is: hearty, practical, patient. The kind that’s even better reheated, as most soups absolutely are. It begins, as so many good things do, with the trio of goodness: onion, carrot, and celery. From there, it simmers into a bowl that feels like tugging on your favorite wool sweater.

After I ladle it out, I shower the broth with fresh dill. Perhaps too much, I never measure. The green threads curl into the soup as if it’s sprouting in the pot itself, lifting memory into the present, reminding me that even old comforts can still surprise.

This soup always takes me back. When I was pregnant with Stella fourteen years ago, I was so ill I could hardly eat. Honeycrisp apples, shaved and peeled, were all I could muster. I was throwing up every morning both in the shower and northbound on the interstate towards my middle school classroom. During this challenging time, and my mother-in-law rather concerned, she kindly offered to make my mom’s Chicken and Wild Rice Soup, something she had heard me request before. Carol called Gwen up in Iowa for the recipe and set to work. One whiff of the broth and I ran to vomit. Shucks.

That season, barfing, bedridden and lonely, was when I started Instagram. Have I ever shared this with you? I had hyperemesis, a debilitating condition that made even daily tasks like walking from the bed to the toilet impossible. Searching for connection, I found other women with due dates like mine, some also suffering, all making accounts to share their nurseries. Andrew and I were living in a loft downtown, and while a nursery for our baby girl was far from happening, it was that little dream that kept my spirits afloat. Nesting is a wonderful coping mechanism.

I joined social media, naming my new account @mamawatters, both basic and truthfully, unconsidered. But it was a tether to something bigger than myself, thin, but strong enough to hold me through the loneliness and confusion of that first pregnancy. Being adopted and so very sick, I didn’t have a biological mother who had had a baby herself to help guide me through the bewildering new shifts of my body. I felt like I was doing pregnancy wrong! I wish I could give my old self a gentle hug and some nausea-relieving sea bands. What I did have, along with Andrew’s endless support, were kind and hopeful messages from strangers who became companions, cheering me on. It was really lovely, looking back.

The rest, as they say, is history. But whenever I think of Chicken and Wild Rice Soup, those memories rise like dill in the broth. Here is a comforting, autumn-ready version. It’s extra creamy, very hearty, and brightened by none other than fresh dill.

Creamy Dill Chicken & Wild Rice Soup

Ingredients (serves 6–8)

• 2 Tbsp butter or olive oil, I prefer a bit of both

• 1 yellow onion, diced

• 3 large carrots, peeled and diced

• 3 celery stalks, diced

• 3 cloves garlic, minced

• 1 tsp salt (plus more to taste)

• ½ tsp black pepper (plus more to taste)

• 1 cup uncooked wild rice

• 8 cups chicken broth (homemade bone broth will make this divine)

• 2 bay leaves

• 1 ½ lbs boneless, skinless chicken breasts or thighs

• 1 cup heavy cream

• 1ish cup fresh dill, chopped

• Juice of ½ lemon

Instructions

1. In a large Dutch oven, melt the butter over medium heat. Add onion, carrots, and celery, cooking until softened, 5–7 minutes. Stir in garlic, salt, and pepper. Cook one minute more until fragrant.

2. Add the wild rice, chicken broth, and bay leaves. Nestle the chicken into the pot. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to a gentle simmer. Cover and cook 45 minutes to an hour, until the rice is tender and the chicken is fully cooked. You could add a whole raw chicken, should you prefer!

3. Remove the chicken, shred it with two forks, and return it to the soup. Stir in the heavy cream, letting the soup simmer 5–10 minutes more until slightly thickened.

5. Finish with fresh dill, a drizzle of olive oil, and lemon juice. Taste and adjust seasoning as you like!

This is a soup made for evenings when the house feels a little emptier and for days that call for something steady and grounding. The dill will lift it, bright and unexpected, reminding you, just as it reminded me, that familiar comforts still surprise. Make it on a Sunday and eat it all week or share it with someone who needs a bowl of warmth. And please, when you try it, sprinkle with a little extra dill. You’ll see why.

Ps. All recipes, I believe, are more like guidelines than things you should rigidly follow. How boring would that be! I encourage you to play when you cook, to swap ingredients that you favor, and to make whatever I share, your own.

Pps. Don’t freeze anything with dairy in it. It will not thaw well.

xx Amanda

Almost September is one of my favorite times of the year. The promise of rhythm and consistency begins to hum like a familiar song you have always known the words to. Soccer games return to the calendar, pencils sharpen to their fine points, goldenrod begins to color the sides of highways, and suddenly the smallest, most ordinary things feel like hidden treasures waiting to be gathered and sorted.

This morning my best friend asked how my weekend was and I told her that I cooked, I gardened, I read, I talked with Andrew in quiet loops, and it was the loveliest sort of nothing that feels like everything.We had no plans and yet, perfection. It was a soft string of days that felt like new sheets on the bed, both warm and comforting. I missed this pace.

Isn’t it interesting how summertime can stretch us like taffy, sweet and indulgent and a little too long? We think we crave its freedom, and then, almost without knowing, our nervous systems begin to fray, or mind does anyhow. Early August is always hard for me, despite being the fierce Leo that I am. The lack of anchor that once felt like a gift begins to weigh heavy alongside the now very droopy tomatoes. Then comes Almost September, and like clockwork, I shift gears in an instant, slipping into a different, much calmer current where I can finally float instead of thrash. Almost September, I adore you.

It helps that the weather was seventy degrees when I woke up this morning. I write to you wearing an old, ivory, button down sweater I gleefully plucked from our cedar chest before the rising light of the sun hit our pantry doors, a little delight I thrifted months ago when the shiny newness of summer was calling us to paint our skin with sunscreen and eat popsicles for supper. I finally get to wear her!

So here we are. The kids are going back to school, two with bright eyes, two still carrying the last bits of summer like sand in their shoes. Tilly has been struggling with the longer days without my arms nearby, and that has tugged hard on my heart. But I am ready. Ready to breathe. Ready to find the thread of my own thoughts again. Ready to plan a meal without stopping mid-sentence to mediate another storm over screen time.

I love my babies, and I love that I do not homeschool them. As a person and as a mother, I need solitude the way a garden needs rain. Not in great, infrequent floods, but in daily, steady measure. Not the makeshift solitude of a car ride or a long grocery line, but the kind stitched together by quiet minutes and warm coffee, the kind that begins in stillness and ends with looking for ladybugs among the sunflower leaves.

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June begins. The light lengthens. The evenings hold on longer than they did the week before. The markets begin to hum with early abundance: tomatoes that smell like the sun, cucumbers cool under your palm, peppers still wearing a bit of spring’s green at their edges. I love this transition and the life it gives me.

This is when I begin making summer gazpacho.

Its origins, like many of my favorite comfort foods, are unceremonious. In Andalusia, farmers and laborers softened stale bread with water, pounded garlic and salt with a mortar, and poured in oil and vinegar. Later, tomatoes arrived from across the sea and changed the color of the bowl. But the method remained the same: take what the season gives, and with as little interference as possible.

Let it be enough.

I’ve never made gazpacho the same way twice. I do not expect to, that would be boring. The tomatoes are different each week. Cucumbers sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet. Olive oil, depending on which bottle I reach for, varies in sharpness and weight. The vegetables speak first; I listen and follow.

But while the details shift, certain things hold steady. The too-hard-to-eat bread, soaked and wrung, thickens the soup to something more than liquid. The steady note of vinegar lends a faint sharpness without drowning the tomatoes’ own acidity. The olive oil is not just added but worked in ever so slowly, so the soup becomes silky and holds together, rather than splitting apart. These are not rules. They are simply what works.

Let me be clear: gazpacho is not salsa. Although I eat that with a spoon as well. It is not rawness for the sake of it. It is softened, blended, calmed. It is not cooking as much as it is allowing ingredients to be themselves without too much fuss.

When it’s ready, I pour it into bowls or chilled mugs and carry it out to the brick-covered patio, where me and my kids sit barefoot, our shoulders warm from the sun. The soup is cold and smooth, requiring no garnish, though sometimes we scatter a few basil leaves or dice a cucumber for texture. It doesn’t ask for much. Use leftovers if you have them.

Every year, around this time, as I slice into the first deeply red tomatoes of the season, I am reminded of how little is required for something to be both simple and sufficient. How much of cooking is just stepping aside.

Gazpacho is summer, held in a bowl.

Simple Summer Gazpacho

Serves 4–6

Ingredients:

• 2 ½ pounds ripe tomatoes, cored and roughly chopped

• 1 cucumber, peeled and chopped

• 1 red, orange, or yellow bell pepper, seeded and chopped (I used orange for this batch)

• 1 small shallot or ½ red onion, chopped

• 1 garlic clove, minced

• 2 slices stale bread, crusts removed

• ¼ cup sherry or red wine vinegar

• ½ cup extra virgin olive oil, plus more for serving

• Sea salt, to taste

• Hefty dash of Tabasco

• Freshly ground black pepper

• Optional: basil, chopped cucumber, croutons, poached shrimp, avocado slices, or hard-boiled egg for garnish

Instructions:

1. Soak the bread in water until soft. Wring out gently.

2. Blend tomatoes, cucumber, bell pepper, shallot, garlic, and bread until smooth.

3. With the motor running, slowly drizzle in olive oil to emulsify.

4. Stir in vinegar, salt, and pepper. Taste and adjust.

5. Chill at least 2 hours.

6. Serve cold, with more olive oil and any garnish you like—or none at all.

And so, each summer, I return to this small, scrumptious ritual of blending what’s ready. To the knife, the cutting board, the quiet listening.

In a few days, we’ll be in Paris for the summer, where I know this will find its way onto our table week after week — market tomatoes from the corner stall, warm baguette for the bread, oil from Provence. A meal that asks almost nothing but patience and offers everything. There’s comfort in knowing that as the season shifts and the harvest changes, this bowl will meet me where I am — cool, simple, enough.

xx Amanda

What spaces do you feel most comfortable in? Most alive in? Most yourself in? Looking back, the most comforting rooms I’ve ever been in, the ones that made me linger, exhale, and feel, weren’t the ones styled to perfection. They were the ones that felt lived in, not just lived with. They held story. They whispered something intangible. A mood. A memory. A deep breath I didn’t know I was holding. That’s the kind of home I want to create and the kind of space I want to spend time in.

And yet, we live in a time where that quiet knowing is easily drowned out.

Today, the internet gives us access to everything. A million paint colors. A thousand sofa styles. A constant flood of “must-haves” and “rules to follow.” Every scroll reveals a new aesthetic to chase, a new trend to keep up with, a new reason to doubt your own taste. While it’s never been easier to decorate a home, it’s never been harder to design one that feels like you.

The sheer volume of options has created a kind of aesthetic paralysis. The overwhelm of it all can leave even the most confident homemaker second-guessing their instincts. And for what? Fast installs. Clickable rooms. The illusion of completion. But homes aren’t made in reels and carousels. They’re made over time, in layers. They’re made in listening.

And although I understand the predictability and safety that comes with certain popular and mainstream designers, these spaces not only fall flat for me, they reek of hollowness and speed. Doing a home install in one week, or worse, one day? How can something that takes such little time possibly feel good in the long-term?

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Not because I’m doing less, but because I want to feel more. Let me explain.

In the past, I’ve filled my beds with the same urgency I’ve carried through much of life; if I could just fit it all in, maybe then it would be enough. Abandonment wounds will do that. They whisper, more will save you. And so, I’ve over-sown, over-watered, over-extended. But I’m learning now—too much of even the good and green can crowd out the joy. Lettuce turns bitter. Tomatoes tangle beyond reach. What begins in hope ends in exhaustion.

So this year: fewer seeds. More space. More light. More clarity.

Right now, in the cool hush of spring, I’ve got ruby bunches of rhubarb—those strange, prehistoric stalks that unfurl with slow, confident purpose. I turned our first big harvest into a strawberry rhubarb crisp for Mother’s Day, served warm with whipped cream and melting vanilla ice cream. It tasted like childhood, tart and sweet and true. Matilda licked her bowl clean.

Several varieties of lettuce are already in bloom ready to be turned into yummy salads: butterhead for tenderness, oak leaf for crunch, then purple variety for beauty. Radishes push upward quickly, reminding me that some rewards come fast, but only if planted early and with trust. The herbs are old friends: parsley and thyme already nestled in, basil waiting patiently for the heat to return.

This year, there are no carrots, no beets, no turnips or beans. I’ve grown them before, but honestly? They demand more than they give, at least for me. And just as I’m pruning my garden beds, I’m also pruning my relationships—letting go of those no longer in alignment. There’s grief in that, yes. But also relief. I know in my bones it was right. As I write this, I can almost feel my future self reaching back to hug me. Thank you, she whispers. You did the brave thing.

And while the beds look more spare than in springs past, the sparseness is intentional. Garlic and potatoes lie quiet and hidden beneath the surface. Tomatoes, peppers, and sunflowers wait patiently in their trays for the sun to tell me it’s time. We’re heading to Paris for part of the summer, to set up our apartment, and when we return—I expect fireworks. Peppers glowing red and orange. Tomatoes ready for slicing.

The garden has already begun teaching me again:

First: Everything in its season.

Planting too early, like rushing anything, invites disappointment. Tomatoes sulk in cold soil. Basil browns overnight. But if you wait, if you trust the rhythm, things grow stronger. They arrive when they’re meant to, not when they’re forced.

Second: Spacing matters.

Plants need room to breathe. Air and water must circulate. Roots need stretch and softness. Even good neighbors can cause stress when packed too tightly. I’m learning this in my days, too in how I schedule time, in how I hold boundaries, in how I say, “Not this week,” and mean it.

Third: Don’t grow what you won’t use.

It’s easy to be seduced by glossy seed catalogs or the fantasy of “having it all.” But joy lives in the real: snipping herbs into dinner, harvesting a bowl of greens you’ll actually eat. I planted less this year not out of lack, but out of reverence. I’d rather tend to what I love than chase what I won’t care for. One perfect tomato is worth more than ten that rot on the vine.

And finally: Not all growth is visible.

Garlic takes almost a year. Potatoes grow in silence. The garden reminds me: patience is not passive. It’s the most radical kind of trust. You water. You weed. You wait. And when the time is right, the green appears.

So yes, I’m planting less. But I’m seeing more.

I’m planting the seeds of quieter mornings. Of graceful no’s. Of deep attention. Of choosing what I’ll tend wholeheartedly, rather than endlessly. I’m learning to love the blank spaces between things, not fear them. Because space is not absence. It’s invitation. It’s where the light gets in. Where rest takes root. Where joy returns.

And if the lettuce bolts or the radishes go woody, I’ll still be here learning. Letting the garden, as always, be my practice. My teacher. My mirror. A place where enough is not something I chase, but something I grow.

xx Amanda

Because we are human, and humans must eat, why not treat meals as the poetic ritual they already are? The older I get, the more I believe in this simple sentiment. Not in a fussy, over-performed sort of way, but in a quiet, soul-stirring way. We gather our bodies to a table, fill bowls with warmth, pass bread between hands. It is sacred without needing to say so.

Having just gotten back from France, I’ve been reminded of the sacredness that happens around the table. People there not only take time to eat, but deeply savor the energy such thoughtful eating and gathering weaves into the fabric of their days. You can feel it. It’s electric. It’s slow. It’s important.

The way we eat in France is the way I want to eat here. I want to chop with mindfulness, I want to make our dining table full of beauty, I want candles. None of these things require a special skill but rather an understanding—that life is happening now, in the present, and it’s up to us to notice it, to shape it, to choose presence over autopilot. It’s up to us to decide that this moment—chopping garlic, setting a plate, wiping little mouths—is worthy of our attention. That we don’t need a special occasion to make things beautiful. The occasion is being alive. The occasion is today.

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Cooking is one strong current that carries me through the week. A silent language of care. A way to tether the day when everything else feels slightly untied, especially after a day of running kids here and there. In the middle of schedules and tantrums and long to-do lists, I find peace in the soft simmer of a pot, the heft of my knobby wooden spoon, the way a candle glows even when no one notices but me. In these moments, I write a poem with ingredients, letting mealtime become something that lifts rather than destroys.

Does everyone finish their food? Are you kidding me! Such perfection is a silly goal, but I do feel these small but powerful rituals help nudge my kids to try more, to sit still longer, to open up about their day. And if everything crumbles, we have music, we have beautiful old plates, we have each other.

Here are ten ways I fold beauty into the edges of mealtime, like salt into flour and spice into soup:

1. Make a Menu

A blank notebook. A warm drink. I write the days of the week and imagine what we’ll need to feel held. It’s less about control, more about intention—a small blueprint for nourishment. Start with what you have and go from there. This is your restaurant and you get to call the shots.

2. Set the Table

Even if it’s leftover soup, I lay down spoons and napkins, maybe a flower stem from the yard. The table becomes less a surface, more a stage. The kids are now in charge of this, and we rotate between who does what, when. It’s quite helpful and they actually look forward to this particular chore.

3. Light a Candle

Especially in winter, when light feels borrowed. One small flame says: this is a moment worth noticing. I do recommend not burning something with a strong scent, as it could overwhelm as you eat. Stick to simple beeswax for the most satisfying smell and glow.

4. Choose a Soundtrack

Chet Baker. French accordion. Sometimes just the clatter of dishes and a child humming. Music reminds us we are alive and not just eating out of duty. Make sure it does not rise above the ability to converse. We do “rose & thorn” at the table, sharing the ups and downs of our day, and if the music is too loud it makes such endeavors nearly impossible, for my sensitive ears especially.

5. Add a Garnish

A little herb, a lemon wedge, a swirl of something golden. It’s not about effort—it’s about offering. I like to have these little additions within reach at the table every night, maybe some golden olive oil, maybe a pinch of spicy red pepper flakes. It’s all about customization, which ultimately leads to consumption! Trust me.

6. Use the ‘Nice’ Things

The wobbly ceramic bowl. The linen I once thought too precious. Turns out beauty likes to be used. My great-grandma’s wedding china set in my parent’s basement cupboards for most of their life, until they were given to me. I use them daily and think of her when we do. Nothing is too precious to be used in our home, and sharing that beauty, that time-worn gorgeousness with my kids is just one way I bring care to the table.

7. Share the Cooking

I hand off a whisk. Ask someone to tear the basil. The meal becomes a chorus, not a solo. Anytime I get my kids involved with mealtime they inevitably eat better and complain less. When we actively participate in something we care more about it. This goes for everything, not just mealtime.

8. Say Grace or Gratitude

We name what we’re thankful for. Sometimes aloud, sometimes with a smile. It changes the taste of everything. I don’t think every family should say the same prayer or words of gratitude, but the intention is where the power lies, and when we pause to say “thank you” that positive energy connects us to something bigger than ourselves. I find this to be so beautiful and important.

9. Serve Something Unexpected

Pickles in a tiny bowl. A fancy sparkling. A new spice. These little surprises keep me curious. I like tossing something fresh in a bowl during weeknight mealtimes, usually something picked or preserved. We pass everything at the table, and often the kids will be curios and try. It’s not that they love everything offered, but being open when it comes to experiencing new flavors and textures at the table.

10. Eat Together—No Phones

Not because we should, but because we get to. Because conversation is seasoning.

These aren’t rules. Just gestures. Gentle reminders that tending to a meal is a form of reverence—not only for food, but for life.

How do you bring poetry to the plate?

xx Amanda

Our new view! 

Our home! She's being painted a luscious shade of cream right now which is why the floor is covered. More to come on renovation plans + conversations with French contractors + how we are designing this space!

Andrew and I just returned home from our new—well, very, very old—pied-à-terre in grand Paris. And somehow, it’s real. Pinch me.

We finally got to walk through her sun-drenched rooms for the first time in person, breathing in all her otherworldly Parisienne beauty and charm: the herringbone parquet worn soft by generations of footsteps, the delicate fleur crown molding tracing the ceilings like a secret language, the hearth tucked into the kitchen where I imagine morning coffee and late-night wine, the floor-to-ceiling windows thrown open to the south, letting in that luminous, unmistakably French light.

Am I dreaming? Did we really buy a home in another country across an ocean—sight unseen, heart wide open?

We sure did.

Becuase sometimes life presses a wild, impossible dream into your hands—and into your heart—and asks only that you trust it enough to stay open. Not to discard logic. Not to close your eyes and leap blindly. But to hold both: the grounded knowing that some risks are worth taking, and the flicker of something greater asking you to move.

Not everything has to make perfect sense to be real. Not every step has to be mapped out in order for it to be right. Sometimes, it’s about listening to that steady building within—the quiet, growing fury that refuses to leave your soul alone—and honoring it with careful, courageous action. To believe in that deep internal knowing, even when your knees are shaking. To let logic and longing sit side by side, guiding you forward together.

Because that is how real change begins: not through recklessness, but through a faithful tending of both your wildest hopes and your clearest discernment. You leap, not because you have no fear, but because you know—deep down—that staying still would be the greater risk.

I think life is always offering us these invisible thresholds—moments when we are meant to leap, even when we cannot see the landing. And maybe that’s the true nature of a leap of faith: it rarely feels rational. It rarely feels ready. But sometimes, it’s the only way to step into the life that has been quietly waiting for you all along.

I know you must have questions—how this dream began, how it became real—so let’s start at the beginning.

At night, back home in Kansas City, our conversations began to circle this vision like moths drawn to a soft flame. Andrew and I found ourselves asking the kind of questions that feel both thrilling and a little wild:

What could the next phase of our life look like—personally, professionally, creatively? How could we build something that expanded our dreams, while deepening the work and care already at the center of our days?

The idea came to us the way dreams often do—effortlessly, romantically, as if it had been waiting in the quiet corners of our hearts all along. A second home and space to rent in the South of France, or so we thought at first. Our travels up until this point seemed to lead us here.

We pictured a sun-drenched refuge where summers would stretch long and golden, where our kids could run wild through olive groves and fields of lavender, and where I could weave the spirit of Homesong into a lived experience for others—a travel dream rooted in intention and everyday beauty. Slowly, slowly, this dream began to take root.

I love my small shop, Homesong Market. It is an immense amount of work as any small business owner knows—where deep passion meets ever-present deadlines—and the satisfaction it brings runs marrow-deep. But somewhere beneath the daily rhythms, I could feel a quiet pull asking me to stretch farther. To leave the safety of what was known. To step into a place where creativity could move more freely, where I could be challenged anew. Maybe this is because we are done having children, or maybe because I am nearing 40. Regardless, I am ready to dig deeper as I’ve always loved that fragile, electric space where certainty thins out and something more alive has space to rush in.

Several years ago, before France had entered the conversation, Andrew and I had searched for a small Brookside cottage nearby here in KC—a place to renovate with our hands and hearts, a quiet sanctuary where I could host workshops with my team and create a tangible extension of Homesong’s ethos. A place to share with others what home can mean when tended to with love. We looked and looked, but nothing felt quite like I had imagined it. And after a year of coming up short, we let our gaze lift higher, drift farther—almost without realizing it.

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Some days, you just need to take out your existential dread on a slab of meat. It’s wildly therapeutic pounding chicken breasts into submission—the thwack of the old rolling pin, the firm resistance giving way beneath your hands. It’s not rage, exactly. It’s release. A reset. After that, dredging the pieces through flour, egg, and breadcrumbs feels almost like a meditation. A messy, calming ritual.

It begins with a shallow pan and the whisper of oil warming—my unofficial dinner bell. The kids will consistently trickle into the kitchen one by one in as I sauté these freshly pounded cutlets, vocalizing their curiosity about what soon will land on the dinner table. In that moment, I’m not managing meltdowns or chasing emails or sorting socks while half-listening to a podcast. I’m simply coating something in crunchy carbs and preparing to fry it in oil. And it feels correct.

The inspiration came during a slow Sunday morning with my pal Ina on Be My Guest. She was making chicken parmesan, and I thought—what am I doing not making these for the kids? We’d been plowing through bags of frozen chicken tenders—quick, convenient, but lacking in soul (and flavor). I knew I could do better. I wanted something affordable, healthier, and beautiful enough to feel like an act of care instead of surrender. Now, these cutlets show up often, a simple replacement for everything those plastic-bagged imposters pretend to promise.

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Spring rarely arrives all at once—it comes in slowly, almost shyly, through muddy garden beds, longer light, and bursts of color that feel like relief after so much gray. This year, I’ve felt the season change not just outside, but inside, too. It’s been a tender stretch of time—beautiful in moments, overwhelming in others. Between navigating big emotions in parenting, big shifts in my body and mind, and big dreams for what’s next, I’ve found myself craving slowness, softness, and small joys. These are the ing’s of mid-spring—a reflection of what’s been grounding me, stretching me, and reminding me to stay present in the in-between.

Admiring the blooms that have finally arrived—dogwood, redbud, lilac, crab apple, daffodil. Their names alone feel like poetry after a winter that lingered far too long, its icy grip only recently loosened. Now, Kansas City is bursting into color. Everywhere I look, the earth is humming back to life, and I find myself walking slower, watching longer. The soft greens and early pinks feel like they are painting directly onto my spirit. I’ve needed this gentle riot of color more than I knew.

Listening to less music, but more conversation in my ears. I’ve been bouncing between episodes of The Telepathy Tapes, Smartless (with Jason Bateman, Sean Hayes, and Will Arnett—chaotic, hilarious, strangely comforting), and Oprah’s Super Soul. Depending on the mood of the morning, I’ll press play and let myself be kept company by deep thinkers or deep belly laughs. There’s something in that variety that’s helping me move through these transitional days.

Digging in the dirt, hands full of roots and hope. This spring’s garden includes butter lettuce, red beets, dill, cilantro, basil, potatoes, peas, French radishes, and spinach. I’ve also tucked flower seeds into warm beds of soil, knowing they won’t bloom until summer crowns itself in heat—but I like that sort of faith. There’s magic in planting something today that won’t show up for months. It’s why I have a garden in the first place. She teaches me patience.

Watching less news and more Love on the Spectrum, which has been my balm this season. It’s tender, funny, and so wonderfully human. In a time when the larger world feels unstable and chaotic, watching these stories unfold has grounded me. It’s a reminder of the beauty of real connection and the different ways love can look and feel.

Sipping vibrant iced matcha. I’ve made the seasonal shift from warm drinks to iced matcha in the afternoons. It’s become my green ritual—earthy, a bit grassy, creamy with almond milk. A small thing that feels like a gentle reset between the energy of morning and the stretch of the day ahead.

Honoring who I am, underneath who I thought I was. This season, I’m learning more about myself as a woman living with ADHD—something I was only recently diagnosed with. So many of the ways I’ve silently struggled throughout my life have suddenly come into sharper focus. I’m learning to soften, to give myself grace instead of shame. It’s changed how I parent, how I create, how I speak to myself in quiet moments. This isn’t about fixing, but understanding—and in that understanding, finding freedom.

Swapping our flannel bedding, now folded away and replaced with light linen sheets. It’s one of my favorite seasonal transitions. There’s something about crisp, breathable linen that whispers, “the air is new now.” Even bedtime feels lighter—and rather fancy, I dare say.

Cooking with fresh herbs now that they are back in full force. Bring on the dill, chives, parsley, and mint! They’re the confetti on a dish, the perfume in a pot, the thing that turns something ordinary into something memorable. I’ve also been making a very simple, very delicious chicken cutlet recipe. It’s become a fast favorite around here—one of those magical meals that’s equally loved hot for dinner or cold, tucked into a lunchbox the next day. I’ll be sharing the full recipe later this week.

Navigating the emotional heaviness as we continue supporting our son, Theo. We had hoped to get him into a particular school this fall, a place that felt like the right fit, but it’s not looking likely. So we’re shifting, trying another path. And while I remain hopeful, it’s been a tender season of disappointment and reimagining. Parenting a child with special needs often means holding both deep love and deep exhaustion at once—and that’s where I’m standing now.

Designing something spectacular. There’s something new blooming behind the scenes—something for our family that I am absolutely thrilled to share with you all very soon. Here’s your only hint for now: it’s definitely not in Kansas.

Wearing lighter layers—soft cotton and linen dresses, and the same pair of cotton Mary Janes nearly every day. My wardrobe shifts like the season—more breath, more ease, more skin kissed by sun. I am loving this brand lately; they have so many wonderful, timeless staples.

Brimming with disgust over the way our government continues to protect wealth over wellbeing. I can’t help but feel a deep frustration—rage even—watching tariffs and policy shifts once again favor billionaires while so many families scrape by. It’s infuriating, and at times, it makes everything else feel small by comparison. But I know that beauty, truth, and compassion are forms of resistance too.

Sharing more about something I don’t openly talk about often. I’ve recently opened up more about my adoption journey, a story long held close to my chest. I spoke about it on a recent podcast, and while it felt vulnerable, it also felt necessary. This journey has shaped so much of who I am—my longing, my curiosity, my craving for roots and meaning. Here is the episode.

Editing pages of a cookbook I am writing, ideas for the next flea market, even the way I spend my days. I’m trimming what no longer fits and making space for what feels more aligned. It’s a slow, satisfying kind of sculpting.

Wandering through antique shops, weekend markets, garden paths, and thoughts. Spring invites me to roam a bit—to loosen the grip on structure and see what unfolds.

Smelling the sweet breath of morning after the kids are off to school. That hour between 8 am and 9 am is pure gold. I open the French doors and let the breeze and birdsong in—pollen and promise alike. That smell, that shift in the air—it wakes something in me. I breathe in the newness. I try, as best I can, to begin again.

Pondering a new, much shorter haircut! I envision a French bob with some fringe… something different, something with movement—but nervous to make the plunge. I always forget how much emotion lives in our hair, how much identity clings to it like memory.

Mothering a teenage girl has been its own mirrored adventure. I see so much of myself in her—my sensitivity, my fire, my deep need for connection and space all at once. It’s both beautiful and heartbreaking. I’m learning to love her without needing to fix her, to see her clearly while still giving her room to grow in the way only she can.

Appreciating your patience as I took an unexpected break. I’m in the process of tapering off a medication I’ve been on for nearly two decades, and there were a few weeks where I could barely stand to look at a screen—let alone type anything that felt worth sharing. I so appreciate you still being here. I’m starting to feel much more like myself now. And I’ve missed this—missed you.

More soon,

Amanda

Jesse Eisenberg’s A Real Pain is not just a road trip movie, nor is it simply a meditation on grief, history, or the idiosyncrasies of family. It’s all of those, and, at its core, a film made for empaths—particularly for those who feel pain so deeply that it becomes a defining aspect of their existence. This is a layered story about the pain continuum, the way suffering manifests in nuanced forms, both seen and unseen, and how it ties us to our past, our relationships, and ultimately, our shared humanity.

Pain is everywhere in this film, threading itself through generations and seeping into the spaces between its two foiled protagonists, cousins Benji (Kieran Culkin) and David (Jesse Eisenberg). Their journey through Poland, retracing the footsteps of their Holocaust-surviving grandmother, serves as both a literal and emotional pilgrimage—one that exposes how deeply they (and we) struggle to carry, interpret, and live alongside suffering.

Andrew and I watched it for the first time at his parents’ home in Florida this past January. I found it to be incredibly moving, hilarious, awkward, and comforting—a swirl of mixed emotions and a grab bag of feelings, not unlike how I feel nearly every day.

Let’s dive into these two compelling characters, shall we?

Benji’s pain is loud, messy, and impossible to ignore. He is the embodiment of invisible, internal suffering—depression that lingers just beneath his quick-witted, chaotic persona. His humor is a heavy shield, his energy a frantic attempt to outpace the darkness trailing him. He is exhausting, exasperating, and impossible not to love.

David, on the other hand, is rigid and contained. Tightly wound, he is the one who gets things done. They would not be in Poland if not for him. His OCD manifests as a need for control, for order in a world that has proven itself merciless. He represents the type of person who copes by keeping everything structured, compartmentalized, measured.

The contrast between Benji and David is striking, yet their differences highlight a shared, undeniable truth: pain is a part of all our lives, no matter how it manifests. Benji’s raw, visible suffering mirrors the kind of internal turmoil many of us carry quietly—an ever-present weight that may not always be seen but is felt deeply. His humor and chaotic energy are, in many ways, a defense mechanism, an attempt to ward off the darkness that lingers just out of sight.

On the other hand, David’s rigid control and compulsions show a more contained form of pain—one that expresses itself through the need for order and predictability in a world that often feels unpredictable and cruel. His pain doesn’t scream; it organizes, compartmentalizes, and measures, as though managing everything around him might somehow offer respite from the chaos within.

As I watched their dynamic unfold, I couldn’t help but recognize aspects of myself and Andrew in these two characters. I, with my deep emotional sensitivity and tendency to feel pain intensely, resonate with Benji. I have often found myself overwhelmed by the depth of my own emotions, feeling as though I am drowning in them while trying to maintain some semblance of control.

Andrew, on the other hand, is more like David. He is analytical, pragmatic, and tends to manage emotions by creating structure and logic in the face of uncertainty. He is the one who seeks to fix, to organize, to solve. He doesn’t run from pain but instead processes it through action and strategy.

This dynamic—me, the feeler, and Andrew, the doer—reminds me of how pain often plays out in relationships. It’s easy to feel like two opposing forces, each struggling with our own version of suffering. The film captures this in a way that feels exaggerated yet utterly relatable. These characters, though amplified for dramatic effect, reflect the very real ways people we know—and even ourselves—deal with pain in different forms.

Some of us wear our pain on our sleeves, while others hide it behind tightly controlled facades. Some seek connection and understanding, while others try to compartmentalize and move on. The film hits so deeply because, in these characters, we see the universal struggle to navigate and understand our own suffering while trying to find meaning in it.

This dichotomy between Benji and David, while exaggerated, also sheds light on a deeper truth: we all carry pain, but the way we carry it—how it shapes us, how we respond to it, and how we connect with others in the midst of it—is a deeply personal journey.

For me, the film became more than just a story about two cousins; it was a reflection of my own experiences with pain and how it both isolates and connects us. And in that recognition, I found a sense of shared humanity—one that transcends the different ways we experience suffering, yet still binds us together. It was that universal connection that made the film resonate so profoundly.

And then there is the monumental pain, the historical pain, the pain that dwarfs individual suffering while somehow deepening it. The Holocaust exists in the backdrop of their journey, an unfathomable wound that contextualizes their personal struggles yet refuses to erase them. It is here that the film makes its most poignant statement—pain is not a competition.

The agony of history does not nullify the private ache of a single human being. Instead, it underscores the shared reality of suffering. Watching this made me think about one of my favorite books by Brené Brown, Rising Strong. In it, she writes:

“Comparative suffering is a function of fear and scarcity. Falling down, screwing up, and facing hurt often lead to bouts of second-guessing our judgment, our self-trust, and even our worthiness. I am enough can slowly turn into Am I really enough? If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past decade, it’s that fear and scarcity immediately trigger comparison, and even pain and hurt are not immune to being assessed and ranked. 

My husband died and that grief is worse than your grief over an empty nest. I’m not allowed to feel disappointed about being passed over for promotion when my friend just found out that his wife has cancer. You’re feeling shame for forgetting your son’s school play? Please—that’s a first-world problem; there are people dying of starvation every minute. The opposite of scarcity is not abundance; the opposite of scarcity is simply enough. 

Empathy is not finite, and compassion is not a pizza with eight slices. When you practice empathy and compassion with someone, there is not less of these qualities to go around. There’s more. Love is the last thing we need to ration in this world. The refugee in Syria doesn’t benefit more if you conserve your kindness only for her and withhold it from your neighbor who’s going through a divorce. Yes, perspective is critical. But I’m a firm believer that complaining is okay as long as we piss and moan with a little perspective. Hurt is hurt, and every time we honor our own struggle and the struggles of others by responding with empathy and compassion, the healing that results affects all of us.” - Brent Brown from Rising Strong

This is a truth empaths know well. To feel deeply is to carry not only one’s own burdens but those of the world. A Real Pain acknowledges this weight and offers a reframing. Pain is not an enemy to be defeated or an obstacle to be overcome. It is, as Mary Oliver puts it, a dark box. Not a curse, but a gift. Something to be welcomed to the table, examined, even honored.

And yet, pain is confusing, particularly in a world that treats suffering as a thing to be vanquished, as evidence of failure. This leads to shame, a sense of guilt for hurting at all—especially when others have suffered more. But the Buddhists have learned something different.

In Buddhist philosophy, suffering (dukkha) is not an aberration of life but an intrinsic part of it. The First Noble Truth teaches that to live is to suffer, and that suffering—whether in the form of physical pain, emotional turmoil, or existential dread—is not something to be outrun, but rather, accepted. Instead of viewing suffering as an obstacle, Buddhism offers the idea that pain is a teacher. It strips away illusion, ego, and attachment, revealing something more profound underneath: impermanence, interconnectedness, the rawness of being alive.

Eisenberg’s film does not offer solutions or platitudes. Instead, it extends an invitation: to sit with pain, to recognize it as a companion rather than an intruder. Suffering, after all, is not something to be conquered. It is something to be lived with—messy, relentless, and undeniably real.

And in that way, A Real Pain is not just about the pain we carry—it is about what we do with it. Whether we try to outrun it like Benji, control it like David, or accept it as an inevitable part of life, it remains. And perhaps, as Saint Mary suggests, in time, we can begin to see even our darkest boxes for what they are: gifts.

Reflection Questions

1. How do you personally relate to pain—do you try to outrun it like Benji, control it like David, or sit with it in acceptance?

2. How are you currently comparing your suffering to someone else’s, feeling as though your pain is either “less” or “more” valid? How can the idea that pain is not a competition shift your perspective?

3. What dark box in your life have you struggled to see as a gift? How has time, reflection, or experience changed your understanding of it?

4. If suffering is an inevitable part of life, how can we learn to carry it with grace rather than resentment?

Pain is universal, but so is the capacity for empathy, connection, and meaning. When we see suffering not as something to be hidden or ranked but as something that unites us, braiding us together through the beauty of a shared human experience, we open ourselves to a deeper, more authentic way of being—one where pain, love, and understanding can all sit at the same table.

xx Amanda

“Still Life with Tomatoes, A Bowl of Aubergines and Onions” by Luis Meléndez 1716

Tomatoes, like most things worth eating, hold secrets. They are jewels of the garden, the food I miss most every bitter, blustery February. Raw, they are taut, bright, and eager—summer in edible form, with an acidic bite that feels almost otherworldly.

Let’s be clear: I am not talking about those grainy, off-season, prematurely picked, robot-grown supermarket impostors. No, no, no. Those are not tomatoes.

Oh, the tonic of the tomato. I like Romas for sauce, beefsteaks for sandwiches, heirlooms for salads, and cherries or grapes for snacking. And don’t get me started on the perfume of their leaves—sharp, green, intoxicating. Should I find myself in a good old-fashioned midsummer tizzy, a long linger in my overgrown tomato patch almost always restores me. Sometimes, I’ll crush the leaves between my fingers and breathe them in, the scent unraveling something tight in my chest. Serenity now. Serenity now.

When eating this delectable fruit, I prefer it just ripened, hot off the vine, slathered in thick, fatty mayonnaise and sprinkled with flaky French salt, nestled gorgeously between two hunks of toasted sourdough. A BLT, sans BL. Perfection. Did you know my childhood hero was Harriet the Spy?

Roasted, tomatoes soften, slump, whisper their sweetness—especially when rolled around in a shallow pool of olive oil before meeting heat. If you have a bland tomato, plop her in the oven! She will wake up in no time. Add a few cloves of garlic, maybe a quartered sweet onion, and suddenly, you have the makings of something special. Blended, tomatoes become something altogether different—more yielding, more cohesive. And when turned into soup, they become silk.

Tomato bisque is not a soup for high drama. It lacks the pomp of French onion, with its gooey cap of melted cheese and satiny beef broth. It is not bouillabaisse (a favorite of mine), cluttered with a small ocean of briny things. No, this is a soup for when the world feels too sharp. It smooths, it mellows, it warms the corners of you like a good soup should.

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It is snowing again. Our old windowpanes, thin as parchment, have clouded over in a thick frost, veiling the outside world in a dream of white. They are stunning because they are old. They are freezing because they are old. We will not replace them.

I press my palm against the glass above where I tap the keys, tracing the feathered ice. How many snow days has it been this year? I have lost count. Too icy? School is canceled. Too windy? School is canceled. It might snow in two days? School is canceled for the rest of the week. It feels faintly reminiscent of the early COVID era, which makes me a bit weak in the knees. The days are spilling into each other, indistinguishable, like flour sifted into an endless pile.

Outside, the snow drifts pile up, and soft gusts of wind shake the branches. Aside from the occasional car passing by, it’s quiet. Inside, our home is a different story—alive with noise. My kids are clattering up and down the stairs, the tv hums in the background, and the refrigerator and every cabinet door in the kitchen open and close in a rhythmic pattern. Then there is always someone is always asking for a snack. Meanwhile, the three littles are somewhat immersed in imaginative games and crafts, me trying to keep them busy without too many screens. But we’re running out of steam, folks.

Because of misophonia and the intricate machinery of my own sensitivities, I require silence, or at least the illusion of it, to feel like myself. It’s not just about quiet; it’s about finding space within the noise to breathe, to center, to reconnect with what feels like me, apart from the constant demands and clamor of the world around me. I need this pause, this break, to reset.

There was a time not long ago when I felt rather guilty and ashamed for this basic need, as if craving solitude was an indictment of my mothering. As if, in some way, I wasn’t doing motherhood right if I couldn’t be constantly present, always involved, always engaged in the whirlwind of family life. I wrestled with the idea that needing to step away, needing a quiet moment, somehow meant I wasn’t giving enough.

But over time, I have come to realize something that, in its simplicity, has transformed my perspective: an hour of quiet is not a luxury—it’s a necessity. Like salt in any recipe, it’s essential to the balance, the flavor of life. Without it, I become brittle, impatient, unraveling from the inside. Without that precious moment of solitude, I mother on an empty tank, offering only the frayed edges of myself. It is in the quiet that I am able to refill, to find my bearings, so that when I re-enter the noise, I am whole again, not worn thin by the perpetual demands of noise and expectation.

But snow days do not grant silence. They demand something else entirely: surrender. Just when you think you’ve mapped out your week, scheduled the quiet moments, organized every corner of the house, BAM! Chaos knocks. Scrap that, sister.

The carefully laid plans crumble under the weight of every snowflake that falls, every school cancellation, every unexpected disruption. In the blink of an eye, the world you thought you could control unravels into a sprawling mess, and the quiet you so desperately need slips further out of reach. As I am reluctantly learning, the only way through is to submit, to stop resisting the great, unstructured sprawl of time. And so, I have taken to baking. Yes, you read that correctly—baking.

It’s not the answer I expected, but then, nothing about snow days is ever expected. I find myself caught between two extremes: am I defending my sanity by surrendering to the wild momentum of the day, or am I unknowingly becoming more enlightened by the simple act of mixing flour, sugar, and butter?

Perhaps, in this strange, contradictory space, I am doing both. The kitchen becomes my refuge, my place of intentional chaos, a space where time, though scattered, can still be made sense of—if only for a fleeting moment. Here, in this sacred mess, I find a semblance of control. It is not the control I once thought I needed, the kind that orders every minute of the day, but the kind that emerges from allowing things to unfold, from the deliberate rhythm of my hands.

I cannot say why, only that it feels like the right answer. One day, feeling frazzled and slightly insane, I pulled out cocoa and sugar, melted butter until it sighed, and baked a pan of gooey brownies, dark and glossy, dusted like fresh snow with powdered sugar once cooled.

Another day, feeling a bit fueled from the brownie adventure, I turned cornmeal into warm, golden squares of cornbread, soft as a pillow, slathered with honey butter that melted and ran down our wrists. It wasn’t about perfection or precision; it was the act itself—the slow, comforting process of creation that made the hours feel less like they were slipping through my fingers and more like they had been gently cupped and cradled.

Who am I? What is happening?

Andrew and the kids are delighted by new snow day me who now bakes something sweet every day when school is canceled and I am not pacing the house in my headphones listening to nothing but padded air. If you know, you know.

Last Sunday, before we hunkered down for my kind of Super Bowl—by that, I mean Saturday Night Live’s 50th Anniversary Special—I made Ina Garten’s apple tart to mark the occasion. I had just finished her comforting memoir—more on that slice of heaven soon—and I wanted to cook something that tethered me to both her and France: something buttery, unfussy, and elegant without trying.

Earlier that week, while Andrew was away on a short work trip and the kids made forts in their bedrooms, I curled into the couch under my favorite quilt and watched Eric Ripert, Anthony Bourdain’s best Buddhist friend, appear on Ina’s show Be My Guest. What a brilliant idea for a program. What a brilliant way to spend a snowed-in evening. Ina, with her effortless warmth, has a way of making her guests feel as if they’ve stepped into a slower, kinder world—one where conversation is unhurried, meals are simple yet exquisite, and hospitality is an art of ease rather than effort. I adore it.

As I watched Ina and Ripert talk over a simple apple tart, I was reminded of what I have always known but often forget: cooking (baking, too!) doesn’t need to be elaborate to be transcendent. So I decided on the tart, and have been rather pleased with myself ever since.

The tart was thin and crisp, its apples arranged imperfectly like fallen leaves, its edges caramelized into something just shy of burnt. Okay, there was a little more than burnt, but it was so good we hardly noticed. All six of us ate it standing at the counter, still warm, the scent of baked fruit lingering long after the plate was empty. Then we went back for another slice, this time topped with good vanilla ice cream, the warm tart melting it into a sweet puddle of nostalgia.

A meal need not be fussy to feel special. More often than not, it’s the simplest recipes—executed with care, sprinkled with nostalgia, made with good ingredients, and shared in warmth—that bring the most comfort.

Ina Garten’s Famously Simple French Apple Tart

Ingredients

• 1 sheet frozen puff pastry, thawed but kept cold

• 4 apples, peeled, cored, and sliced ¼-inch thick

• ½ cup sugar

• 4 tablespoons (½ stick) cold unsalted butter, small dice

• ½ cup apricot jelly or jam

• 2 tablespoons Calvados, rum, or water

Instructions

1. Preheat the oven: Set to 400°F (200°C). Line a baking sheet lined well with parchment paper. Don’t skip this step, alas, sugar will be thy enemy.

2. Prepare the pastry: Gently unfold the puff pastry onto the parchment-lined baking sheet. If needed, lightly roll it out to smooth any creases, keeping it around 10 x 14 inches. Refrigerate while prepping the apples. Do not leave it on the counter to warm up!

3. Assemble the tart: Arrange the apple slices in tight, overlapping rows on the pastry, leaving a small border at the edges, around 1/2 an inch or so. Sprinkle evenly with sugar and dot with butter.

4. Bake: Place in the oven and bake for 45 minutes to 1 hour, until the apples are golden and caramelized, and the pastry is crisp. Rotate the pan halfway through baking for even browning.

5. Glaze: While the tart bakes, heat the apricot jelly with the Calvados (or water) in a small saucepan until smooth. When the tart is done, brush the warm glaze over the apples for a glossy finish.

6. Serve: Let cool slightly before slicing. Best enjoyed warm or at room temperature, with a scoop of vanilla ice cream or a dollop of crème fraîche.

Winter lingers, heavy and insistent, but even now, beneath the weight of all this white, something stirs. The light lasts a breath longer each evening. The air, though still sharp, softens at the edges. We may not see it yet, but spring is pulling itself through.

So in these long days, when the world feels like a snow globe that won’t stop shaking, bake. Bake because it anchors you. Bake because it quiets the noise, even for a moment. Bake because it reminds you that warmth is something you can summon with your own hands. And when the thaw comes, as it always does, you will step into it knowing you did more than endure this season—you made something of it.

xx Amanda

I was puttering around the house the other day, not doing much of anything, just moving from room to room in that absentminded way where you think you’re about to do something but can’t remember what. Eventually, I sat down on the edge of my bed, phone in hand, and tapped my way into Instagram. I scrolled a bit, feeling nothing in particular, when I realized—my feed felt stale, like the algorithm had been sleepwalking for months.

Tired and uninspired, I clicked into my “least interacted with” accounts and started scrolling through the long list of names. Some were people I’d followed on a whim, drawn in by a beautiful image or a quote that had once moved me. Others, I had no recollection of at all. Somewhere in the 800-range, I started what would become a mass unfollowing.

At first, it was easy. If I didn’t recognize the name or profile picture, gone. If I hadn’t seen their content in months—or worse, if I had and still felt nothing—gone. Each tap of “unfollow” felt like cutting a tiny, invisible thread. Lighter. Freer. But then I started hesitating.

Some accounts gave me pause. There were people I used to know, people I’d once talked to but hadn’t in years. Would they notice? Would they be hurt? Some were private accounts, which meant if I let them go, I’d likely never see them again. I sat with the discomfort of it, fingers hovering. But then I asked myself—was I holding on out of genuine connection, or just out of habit?

I hit unfollow.

And again. And again.

And with every tap, I felt it—that quiet release, like tension I didn’t even know I’d been carrying had finally loosened its grip. It felt good. Really good. So I kept going.

One hundred accounts down, I refreshed my feed, and still, it needed more pruning. I came across past friendships, old coworkers, acquaintances who had long since drifted in different directions. This was harder. Nostalgia is sticky that way, tricking you into thinking that something is still meant for you just because it once was. But the truth was, I no longer knew these people—not really. Their lives had continued on without me, just as mine had without them.

I reminded myself: Unfollowing isn’t rejection. It’s realignment.

And so I let them go.

We hold on for all kinds of reasons—politeness, nostalgia, fear of how someone might perceive our boundaries. But what if unfollowing wasn’t about turning away, but about making space? What if letting go wasn’t loss, but an opening?

Maybe we worry that an unfollow sends the wrong message, that it’s an act of judgment rather than quiet self-curation. Maybe we think it’s too final, too irreversible. Maybe we fear what it says about us—does letting go of a past friendship mean we’re admitting it no longer matters?

Or maybe, in some way, we use these digital ties as proof that we haven’t drifted too far, that we’re still connected, still tethered to the past in a way that feels safe. Instagram, like life, is fluid. Some people evolve, shedding old selves like snakeskin. Others remain steady, unchanged. Both are valid. The only mistake is forcing yourself to stay tethered to something that no longer fits.

You may be thinking, but Amanda…this is just social media. There are way more important things to consider and write about. I respectfully disagree.

How much time are you spending taking information in while not giving much attention to the curation of it? What we see and surround ourselves with, whether it be in our homes, our places of work, or lives online is what has the most profound effect on our lives. You can dismiss the importance of editing your feeds, but you may be slow dancing with denial.

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What a book! A wee pocket-sized-pal, indeed. If you’re feeling hopeless, listless, or even a little emotionally hungover from the mess 2025 has handed us so far, this short read might just be the salve you didn’t know you needed. It was for me. Weeks after turning the last page, its wisdom is still there—quietly buoying me, reminding me that there’s a better way to live, to connect, to see the world.

Robin Wall Kimmerer’s The Serviceberry: Abundance and Reciprocity in the Natural World is small in size but profound in its reach. It feels less like a book and more like a friend sitting across from you, gently nudging you to reconsider the way you’ve been moving through the world. In her signature style, Kimmerer weaves together Indigenous wisdom, ecology, and human connection to create a tapestry of thought that lingers long after you’ve finished.

Much like Braiding Sweetgrass, this book has the power to challenge everything you think you know. It looks modern scarcity right in the face and dares to say, “What if we’ve been wrong all along?” It asks us to rethink our relationship with nature—not as something separate, but as a living, breathing part of us. And, maybe most powerfully, it invites us to imagine an economy rooted in abundance and reciprocity rather than greed and extraction. It’s the kind of wisdom that feels like a gentle revolution, one where hope blooms quietly between the lines.

Reading it felt like someone flicked on a light switch in a dimly lit room. Here are my three biggest takeaways—insights that felt less like lessons and more like seeds planted in the soil of my mind, growing steadily ever since. I hope they inspire you to pick up this little treasure of a book and let its wisdom take root in your life, too.

1. The Economy of Abundance & Reciprocity

Kimmerer introduces the concept of an economy not built on scarcity but on abundance, as exemplified by the one small but impactful part of nature: the serviceberry tree. This particular tree produces more fruit than it can ever use, offering nourishment to birds, animals, and humans alike. It’s inherent generosity underscores a truth we often overlook: nature provides enough for all if we align with its rhythms.

This takeaway reminds me to focus less on taking and more on sharing, all the while trusting in nature’s capacity to sustain us. We need to remember that viewing life through a lens of lack often leads to feelings of scarcity, fear, and dissatisfaction. It makes us focus on what we don’t have, leading to comparison, envy, and a constant yearning for more. This mindset can create a sense of being stuck, as we fail to recognize the resources, relationships, and opportunities already available to us. It fosters a sense of limitation and encourages us to operate from a place of survival rather than flourishing.

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No, it’s not Easter yet. And no, this ancient seven layer wonder has not been forgotten. Not by me, anyhow. Lately, I’ve been craving the classics— dishes that arrived at the table year after year, unchanged, unchallenged, made with the same ingredients in the same proportions because that was simply the way it was done.

For some reason, likely related to nostalgia, I miss the meals that remind me of church basement potlucks, the epicenter of my childhood, of Tupperware bowls filled to the brim, of food made to be shared, scooped, and savored.

This is not about church. Although fun fact: did you know that for the entirety of my childhood my family shared holiday meals potluck-style in a church basement right down the road from where my birth family was living and doing life together? I mean what a quietly devastating coincidence.

How wild is it that just a mile or two away, my birth family—humans who shared my DNA, people whom I asked to know about for years and years—sat at their own table, celebrating roughly the same holidays, carving into the same season with different hands, different voices, different stories.

I am still grappling with this haunted reality, and it’s why the grip tightens nearly every time I return to where I was raised, knowing that at any given time my birth mom and my adoptive mom might be in the same Target checkout lane. It’s the actual definition of worlds-colliding, and the silence around it has been deafening.

When I found out about how close the church basement was to my birth mom’s house, the one here my three sisters were raised, I wondered alone if I ever crossed their minds, if in-between bites of culinary relics like seven-layer-salad, someone ever looked up and felt the absence of a child thew knew existed but never talked about, or if my very existence had already slipped into the deep sliver of silence that so often accompanies loss. I now know it was the latter.

I didn’t know any of this as a little kid. I sat at a different table, eating from a plate for food that looked like every other year’s. That’s the thing about childhood—you only know what’s placed in front of you. But hindsight is a powerful thing. It makes you see the weight in what once felt ordinary. And maybe that’s why I return to these old recipes now—not to recreate them exactly, but to understand them. To stand in my own kitchen, layering ingredients with thoughtfulness, making something familiar yet undeniably mine.

Just because something has always been done one way does not mean it cannot be done better— or done differently. Maybe, in some small way, that’s what I’m doing for myself too? Taking what was given, what was missing, what was lost—and making something whole and delicious and comforting.

This simple recipe is about seven-layer salad, made my way. A nod to nostalgia, but with the benefit of hindsight. Betty Crocker had her version, and I have mine—one that leans into what actually tastes good, what nourishes rather than just fills, what respects tradition while making room for improvement.

I eat it now with my family and think about how, despite the ongoing existential disorientation of being adopted—does one ever really get over losing an entire family system at birth?—there is something about these meals that makes me feel whole again. Sharing them, making them mine, feels like an act of reconciliation. Even in the absence of what I never had, I’ve learned to make something beautiful from it. Which, I suppose, for me cooking and creating in general is never just about the thing being made. It’s a powerful act of transformation, of taking what is fragmented and, through intention, turning it into something meaningful, something that honors what was lost while shaping what is can what can be.

Seven-Layer Salad

For the Dressing

This should be whisked well and added just before serving—any sooner, and the crispness is lost. The dressing should be tangy, lightly sweet, and well-seasoned, enhancing rather than masking the ingredients.

• 1 cup mayonnaise (Hellmann’s, Duke’s, or Kewpie—nothing too sweet)

• 1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar (for brightness and a slight tang)

• 1 tablespoon honey (for balance, not sweetness)

• 1 garlic clove, minced (to add just enough bite)

• handful of fresh herbs, like parsley and dill

• Lots of fresh cracked black pepper (because the right amount of heat makes all the difference)

• Sea salt to taste

This dressing is simple but wholesome—creamy, lightly acidic, with a touch of honey to round it out. It clings to the ingredients without drowning them, giving everything just the right amount of richness.

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But then, I finished my book, and instead of closing it and waiting for the next month, I reached for another. And then another. I listened while I cooked, read in the small, in-between moments that would have otherwise dissolved into nothing. I didn’t scroll as much. I didn’t skim to pass the time. I read. And in reading, I found myself choosing something slower, richer, more nourishing than the frenetic energy of news cycles and algorithmic feeds.

Now, at the end of a month, I have six wonderful and rather varied books on my shelf and a different kind of fullness—one that doesn’t feel like too much but rather like enough for the first time in a long time. More than enough, actually. These books, these stories and ideas, have given me more hope than I’ve had in a while. And the hope comes not just from the books themselves but from the act of reading them—of choosing, again and again, to turn to a page instead of a screen.

So, I am changing course. Not one book a month, parceled out in manageable portions, but as many as call to me. I will read and share, not according to a set schedule, but as things unfold. The only structure I will hold myself to is this: I will always have an audiobook ready, always have a book in my bag or on the counter, something within reach when my hands itch for distraction.

It is easy to hold fast to an idea simply because it was the original idea. To cling to the shape of a plan because it feels orderly, because it makes sense to others, because it is easier to explain. But life is never quite so structured. It moves, shifts, nudges us toward something different, and we do ourselves a disservice when we resist that natural flow.

The change in how I read—and how I want to share what I read—is small, but the lesson it carries is not. There is power in noticing when something no longer fits and allowing it to evolve. What once seemed right—a book a month, neatly packaged—suddenly felt arbitrary, like holding myself back for no good reason. And so I let go.

Leaning into intuition rather than rigid expectations is an act of trust. Trust that the pull toward something different is worth following, that instinct is not just impulse but intelligence in another form. We all benefit when we allow ourselves that freedom—to adjust, to pivot, to embrace what feels most natural instead of what seems most manageable.

When we follow what lights us up, we have more to offer. We move through the world with more energy, more curiosity, more depth. And that is exactly what I hope to bring here. Not a formula, not a fixed pace, but a constant, generous sharing of whatever is worth passing along.

This month I dove in and read Sharon McMahon’s incredible new book The Small and the Mighty: Twelve Unsung Americans Who Changed the Course of History, from the Founding to the Civil Rights Movement and listened (and sadly just finished!) Mel Robbin’s The Let Them Theory everyday while working out. Both made me feel more human and alive and hopeful. More on both of these delightful and powerful books to come. Point being: there is so much good content out there you guys. And while social media can be great, and so can the news in doses, they can also both be disastrous dumpsterfires that make it hard to look away. I am getting tired of feeling like I have to look to keep up. The truth is, I don’t. Neither do you.

Some things I have been pondering, that I invite you to think on:

• What would happen if I followed what energizes me, rather than what feels most structured?

• What role does reading (or any slow, intentional pursuit) play in my daily life?

• How is reading life-giving for me? And how can I create simple, manageable ways to integrate it more into the rhythm of my daily life?

• If I replaced just one habit of mindless distraction with something more meaningful, like reading, what might change for me?

So here’s the new plan—simple, flexible, and, most importantly, aligned with how I actually want to engage with books. I will read, at my own pace, following curiosity rather than a calendar. I will analyze each book, not just summarizing but digging into what made it resonate, what challenged me, what lingered after I closed it.

I will share those reflections here, offering not just a review but conversation starters. I want this to be a space for thoughtful discourse, a place where we can exchange ideas in the comments, where your insights can expand my own. And at the end of each essay, I’ll share what I plan to read next—not as a rigid assignment, but as an open invitation, in case you’d like to read along.

Here’s how this will work moving forward:

1. Read – I’ll choose books based on interest and intuition, not a set schedule.

2. Analyze – Instead of just summarizing, I’ll break down what resonated, what challenged me, and what stayed with me when I am done with said book.

3. Share – I’ll write about each book I read here, offering reflections that go beyond a simple review. I enjoy writing about things I have spent time with. And analyzing what I’ve experience through writing is just one way I process at a deeper lever.

4. Discuss – I’ll invite you to join the conversation in the comments, sharing your own thoughts and insights. Maybe these conversations will excite you and encourage you to pick up a new book. Any maybe not. That’s okay too. Read what feels like it will light you up, whatever that means to you in whatever season you are in.

5. Look Ahead – At the end of each essay, I’ll share what I plan to read next for anyone who wants to follow along.

This approach allows for more depth, more engagement, and a reading experience that feels dynamic rather than rigid. There is something freeing about allowing a plan to evolve, about trusting that curiosity will lead where it needs to go. What started as a structured approach to reading has become something more fluid, more expansive, and ultimately more fulfilling.

Instead of limiting myself to a single book each month, I am embracing the natural rhythm of my own engagement—sometimes slow and immersive, sometimes quick and voracious, but always intentional. And in doing so, I am reminded that the best habits are the ones that give more than they take, that enrich rather than constrain.

So, I’ll keep reading, analyzing, and sharing—not with the pressure of meeting a quota, but with the joy of discovering what’s worth passing along. I hope you’ll join me in this new approach, whether by reading alongside me, engaging in thoughtful discussion, or simply finding inspiration to carve out more space for slow, meaningful pursuits in your own life.

However you engage, even if it’s quietly from afar, I hope this space becomes a place where books (among other comforting things like food, music, film, and design) are not just consumed but truly experienced, where stories and ideas are given room to stretch, settle, and shape us in ways we may not expect.

P.S. As promised, although not on schedule, The Serviceberry takeaways will be coming up! As will so many others I just know you will love.

xx Amanda

As some of you know, I had LASIK surgery—and while the haze is clearing from my vision, my world is still blurry. While recovering, as if on cue, the flu stormed through our house, leaving Tilly bedridden and everything else spinning. And as if that weren’t enough, I’ve been buried in training for a new shipping role at the shop, juggling operations since we’re still without a full-time manager, and stepping in for a team member who also caught the flu. It’s like the universe said, “Here’s a bit more,” and it hasn’t stopped pouring.

On top of it all, I’ve been piecing together the final touches for Saturday’s “Letters from Paris” flea market, and somehow, planning for March and April’s markets too. All of this, woven together in a beautiful, frantic mess. I don’t share this to ask for sympathy, but to pull back the curtain. I am stretched thin—gossamer-thin, fraying at the seams. I am tired in a way that only those who’ve worn a dozen different faces in a day can understand: the multitasker, the problem-solver, the one who pushes and holds, who moves forward even when the world feels like it’s dragging behind.

Being a small business owner? It’s not for the faint of heart. It’s endless grit. Add to that the tender weight of mothering four small humans, each with their own ever-evolving and rather challenging needs, and the quiet battle of keeping myself from being swallowed whole in the process—and yes, it’s been a lot. I am sure you can relate.

And then, there’s the guilt. It creeps in, heavy like a stone I can’t quite shake off. I haven’t lost a home in the LA fires, or had to rebuild floors in North Carolina. I haven’t faced the devastation (and constant fear) that so many others have. I feel this weight every time my own pain rises to the surface, like it doesn’t matter, like I don’t have the right to feel stretched thin, to feel overwhelmed. It’s as if the enormity of others’ suffering makes my own feel small, insignificant. But I know better. I really do. Comparison doesn’t serve anyone. My pain is mine to carry, and it’s as real as any other.

But here I am, still moving. Still breathing. Surviving on coffee and the kind of tired that’s carved deep into your bones, the kind of weary only those who’ve walked the tightrope of a thousand demands can truly understand. Despite it all, I’m brimming with things to share. Tomorrow, as January finally winds down, I’ll send something your way—an idea that’s been simmering, bubbling up through the cracks of this hard month. It’s about more reading and less structure, but above all, more space for what comes next.

I’ll be back soon with thoughts on The Serviceberry, which has me in awe, and with the quiet things that have been stirring beneath the surface while I’ve been running, juggling, breathing through it all. Because even in the exhaustion, there is always something to say. Always something to share. Always something to move towards. This thought I have, leaves more room for creativity and less structure than I am used to, which feels a bit scary but right.

Anyway. Thank you for being here—thank you for bearing witness to this wild, unpredictable ride. For showing up, whether or not the words have come together, whether or not there’s a clean ending. Thank you for being here, in the ebbs and the flows.

xx Amanda

Being decisive, nothing has changed there, I gravitated toward one pair over and over again: pink and purple, with a shimmery tortoiseshell pattern that gleamed under the oppressing fluorescent lights that hummed overhead. They were far too large for my face and perfectly round, but to me, they were magnificent. I felt like a wee sophisticate, a little lass transformed by the weight of possibility perched on her nose.

On the way home, my world transformed. For the first time, I could see the leaves on the trees—not as vague, green smudges, but as distinct, serrated miracles. I turned to my mom, bubbling with wonder, and described the leaves to her with all the earnest delight a six-year-old can muster. My discovery seemed to brighten her, too, as though my newfound clarity had refracted onto her own sense of the world. I recall her tearing up, not realizing how bad my vision had gotten, a reminder that sometimes, it’s the simple, everyday discoveries that hold the most meaning.

Those glasses marked the beginning of a thirty-one-year companionship with various frames and lenses—some sensible, some outlandish, all indispensable. Each pair would become a lens not just for seeing but for living—a quiet tool that allowed me to read pages, wander new cities, cook, plant seeds, study faces, and marvel at the world. And yet, none of those later pairs would ever feel as imbued with wonder as the pink and purple tortoiseshell ones, my first portal to clarity. Not hat you asked, but I have only veered away from tortoiseshell spectacles twice in my life, and those two decisions were met with regret.

Now, after several decades of reliance on glasses, I no longer need them. LASIK has given me a new lens—one that doesn’t rest on my nose or tuck into my pocket. It’s a change that’s both surreal and life-altering, and I’m here to answer the questions many of you have about the experience:

My LASIK Experience: Your Questions Answered

Firstly, I AM NOT A DOCTOR. Getting that out of the way straight out the gate, friends.

What is LASIK?

The name LASIK stands for “laser-assisted in situ keratomileusis.” The term “in situ” means “in position” or “in place.” The word “keratomileusis” is the medical term for reshaping your cornea. Your cornea is the outermost layer of your eye. I learned this from Google.

How much does it cost?

LASIK costs can vary widely, depending on the clinic, technology, and promotions. The baseline price typically ranges from $2,000 to $4,000 per eye. For my procedure, I benefited from a January promotion, which knocked $1,000 off the total. On top of that, I used a referral discount for another $100 off, and my insurance covered $300. It felt like an investment I’d been putting off for years, but when I considered how much I’d spent on glasses, contacts, and prescription sunglasses, the choice became clear. Always ask about seasonal discounts and financing options if cost feels like a barrier—it’s more common than you think.

Did it hurt?

Yes—but mainly afterward. The procedure itself was virtually painless. They numbed my eyes with drops, and though it felt strange, I wouldn’t call it uncomfortable. The four hours following the procedure, however, were another story. It felt as though someone had sprinkled shards of glass across my corneas. I lay in bed, eyes squeezed shut, trying to will myself to sleep. Tylenol helped take the edge off, but I also leaned into the discomfort with the awareness that it was temporary—a small price to pay for clarity. By the time I woke up, the pain had ebbed, replaced by a mild scratchiness, like the tail end of an eyelash stuck in your eye.

What did the procedure feel like?

The procedure itself was relatively and suspiciously quick—not even five minutes minutes per eye, but it felt longer because of the strangeness of it all. After lying back on the surgical table, I was given more numbing drops that worked immediately. My eyes were held open with a speculum, which felt intrusive but not what I’d describe as painful. The suction ring they used to stabilize my eye caused a brief moment of pressure, followed by complete blackness, which I did not enjoy. That was the scariest part—those seconds when my vision disappeared entirely. I remember holding my breath and thinking, What if this goes wrong?

Then, after moving to another bed (surgical platform? Again, I am not a doctor) came the laser, a bright, focused light. It wasn’t painful, but there was a smell—burning hair, faint and sterile, like the whisper of something disappearing. They’d warned me about it, but still, it felt surreal. The entire process was over before I had time to dwell on it, which I obviously have in dramatic depth since. It felt clinical and alien but tolerable, and the staff’s calm reassurances were an anchor throughout.

How did you get LASIK with a -10 prescription?

Being severely nearsighted, I wasn’t sure LASIK would be an option for me. My prescription was a -10, but modern LASIK can accommodate up to -12, provided your corneas are thick enough. The consultation was thorough—like the job interview for my eyes. They mapped my corneas, measured their thickness, and confirmed my prescription had been stable for at least a year. Knowing that this technology could correct something as extreme as my vision felt miraculous.

How long does the recovery take?

The initial recovery is remarkably quick. By the next morning, I woke up to a world in almost crisp focus—no fumbling for glasses, no disorienting blur. That first glance at Tilly in the middle of the night without glasses was emotional. She sleeps in our room (she’s the fourth kid, okay?) on a far too cozy bed couch thing, and I went up to her face and smooched it, followed by the realization that I would no longer need help to see.

While the clarity was fairly immediate, the full healing process will take a few weeks. I wouldn’t say my vision is 20/20 yet, but I am hopeful. I’m following my doctor’s guidelines religiously: no rubbing my eyes, no makeup for a week, sunglasses everywhere to protect my eyes from UV rays, and a strict regimen of lubricating and antibiotic drops hourly.

Are there any side effects?

Yes, but from what I’ve read, they’re manageable. The most common one is dry eyes and light sensitivity, both of which I had prior to this procedure. I will let you know more about this as I experience the transformation.

Were you scared?

Absolutely. The idea of someone aiming a laser at my eyes felt like an act of bravery or folly. I remember asking myself “Is this worth the risk?” right up until I walked into the room. What helped was knowing how routine the procedure is. Andrew was there throughout and that support was immeasurable. The clinic’s success rate was stellar, and hearing about friends’ positive experiences gave me confidence. That said, fear isn’t rational—I had to breathe through the moments when it felt overwhelming, focusing on what lay on the other side of that fear: a lifetime of seeing without barriers. I watched a woman go through the entire process in front of me and she walked out like a badass by herself. I don’t know her, but she gave me confidence to keep going.

What about dry eyes?

Dry are my constant companion right now and likely in the weeks following LASIK. It isn’t unbearable, but it is a noticeable shift. My doctor had prepped me with a supply of artificial tears, which I’m using religiously—one drop every hour at first, tapering off gradually as the dryness improved. I am keeping the drops handy at all times, in my purse and on my nightstand.

What should you do to prepare for LASIK?

Preparation for LASIK felt like getting ready for a life event. The first step was to stop wearing contact lenses several days beforehand so my corneas could settle into their natural shape. I also cleared my schedule for the day of the procedure and the day after, knowing I’d need rest and recovery time. The morning of the surgery, I skipped eye makeup, perfume, and lotions, as instructed. And I made sure I had sunglasses, eye drops, and Tylenol waiting at home. Most importantly, I lined up a ride to and from the clinic—I wasn’t about to navigate the world through freshly lasered eyes. Also, it was lovely having Andrew there before and after as I am not one who enjoys medical interventions.

Who isn’t a good candidate for LASIK?

Not everyone is a match for LASIK. If you have thin corneas, severe dry eyes, or an unstable prescription, the procedure may not be right for you. The consultation is designed to identify these factors, so you’ll know for sure if LASIK is a safe option. I got my procedure done the same day as my consult, which was handy!

What other questions do you have for me about LASIK?

xx Amanda

I love seafood. A tiered platter of briny crustaceans, shells shimmering, their saline tang matched perfectly with crisp French fries and the unctuous richness of mayonnaise, is abundance distilled. Add a filthy dirty martini—a cold, briny slap of vodka, its edge softened by the plushness of blue cheese-stuffed olives—and I am undone. The meal becomes not just sustenance, but a moment of surrender, each bite and sip unfurling layers of contentment until joy is the only thing left.

I usually never make meals with shellfish at home. Several reasons come to mind. For starters, we live in Kansas City, home of meat and potatoes. Langoustines hardly beg to be grilled and slathered with parsley butter here.

Being landlocked like we are, acquiring an abundance of fresh seafood isn’t exactly easy, nor is it affordable. Beyond the locality of my little ocean-dwelling friends, I prefer to reserve such delicacies for our weekly standing date-night. It’s then, with Andrew, that I tend to indulge in things I dare not make at home—like shellfish, well most shellfish.

is that I prefer to eat such delicacies outside of our home, reserving these delights for Andrew and my weekly standing date-night, whereupon I indulge in things I dare not make at home, like shellfish.

Can I pry open an oyster? You bet. But it’s way more fun sitting bellied up at the bar with an ice cold martini in hand, waiting on just dropped fries to make their way to our plates, steaming and salty and ready to be devoured. Other things I don’t make at home are not limited to but indulge: seafood towers, French fries, good bread, pastries of any kind, sushi, bagels, cured meats and anything sous vide. The professionals simply make these things way better than I can, and why mess with perfection?

What do I make at home? Nearly everything else. And as I mentioned above, while shellfish isn’t something I cook with often, there’s one dish I’ll make again and again, especially in the wintertime when it’s fridged and I begin to miss the sea and all things summery: fish stew.

This isn’t quite a Cioppino, the San Franciscan seafood stew brimming with with clams, shrimp, mussels, crab, and white fish in a flavorful herbed tomato broth. Nor is it a Bouillabaisse, its less tomatoey Provençal cousin—a poor man’s dish perfumed with saffron, fennel, and hints of orange zest. I adore both.

This stew, one I return to often, sits somewhere in between the two, a comforting dish for a winter’s day. Paired with crusty sourdough bread, transport you to somewhere warmer, somewhere simpler, somewhere by the sea.

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Watching Timothée Chalamet embody Bob Dylan in the new biopic A Complete Unknown was an experience that felt like time folding in on itself. We saw it last night and I am still in reflection mode, a marker of a good film, for me anyhow.

Tim—yes, I’m calling him Tim because I can be rebellious here—has already moved me deeply in Call Me By Your Name, Beautiful Boy, and more, so I expected a solid performance. What I didn’t quite anticipate was feeling a deeper connection to Bob Dylan, and that’s a testament to Chalamet’s transformative artistry. I still don’t get why he’s with Kylie, but that’s a different post for a different time.

Dylan’s music has always held an air of mystery, shaped by his cryptic lyrics and enigmatic persona. Then there’s that unkempt hair, sleek black suit, and famous sunglass-wearing badass charisma. But through Tim’s portrayal, that mystique became approachable, even personal. He didn’t just mimic Dylan’s voice or mannerisms; he captured his spirit—the restless searching, the quiet but profound defiance, the humanity that fuels his genius.

I’ve long adored Dylan’s music—albums Andrew and I return to often, especially in the summertime when the BBQ is rolling, but something about seeing his story brought to life through Chalamet’s piercing gaze and deliberate mannerisms reignited my connection to his work, especially “Blowin’ in the Wind.”

Tim didn’t just play Bobby; he became him. The way he carried the weight of the words in every scene—whether with a wry half-smile or a glance that seemed to pierce through the noise—made the questions in “Blowin’ in the Wind” feel alive again. The song, already timeless, somehow felt new.

Dylan’s voice has always been a beacon for those seeking answers, but seeing it paired with the raw humanity of his story reminded me how universal those questions are. Chalamet’s portrayal didn’t feel like an imitation; instead, it felt like he embodied the essence of Dylan, offering us a glimpse of the man behind the music.

Watching him wrestle with questions about war, freedom, and the human condition, I felt like I was watching someone trying to understand the world in real time—and in doing so, he invited me to reflect on my own place within it.

Let’s dig deeper.

“Blowin’ in the Wind” forces us to confront uncomfortable truths—war, peace, freedom, inequality. The song aches for clarity, but it doesn’t demand it, leaving room for the listener to fill in the gaps. As Chalamet’s Dylan strummed his guitar and leaned into those piercing lyrics, I realized how much those questions still resonate. The answers, like the wind, are there—just out of reach, swirling around us, waiting for someone to truly listen.

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