All Posts By Jennifer

When my kids were little, garlic bread was practically a currency in our house. If I needed them to sit still for just ten more minutes—while I wrestled with a science project volcano that wouldn’t erupt or waited out one of those silent teenage sulks that can stretch on like Lent—I could buy their patience with a warm loaf of garlic bread. It didn’t matter if it came from the freezer section wrapped in foil or was some slightly-too-browned baguette I buttered at home, the smell alone was a peace treaty. But these stuffed garlic cream cheese rolls—oh my word—those …

There are certain recipes that don’t really belong to anyone, though we all like to pretend otherwise. This Shoepeg Salad (or “shoe peg”—I’ve written it both ways, not sure which is proper) is one of those dishes that just floated through my life without much explanation. I can’t say who made it first. My mother swore it came from her neighbor back in Tulsa, but then my sister insists she saw it on a church potluck table in Mississippi in the late seventies. And me? I just know it showed up one afternoon in a Tupperware bowl on my back …

I don’t remember the exact year when I first saw people raving about Beatty’s Chocolate Cake online—it was sometime between my kids being old enough to pour their own cereal but still young enough to leave socks under the couch like confetti. I must have brushed right past it, too, because chocolate cake wasn’t really “my thing” back then. Strange, right? I was always the one who gravitated toward lemon bars or a cherry pie (my mother made the sourest cherry pies that puckered your whole face, and I miss that). But lately, maybe it’s age or just the way …

When I was a girl, my parents would sometimes drive us to Tybee Island in the evenings just to watch the shrimp boats head out. You’d see the horizon dotted with tiny lights, like fireflies dancing on the dark water, and I always imagined my father knew each captain by name. The smell of salt and diesel wasn’t pretty, but it felt like part of home, and it’s one of those memories that never really leaves. Now, years later, whenever I make this dip, I think of those boats and that coast. It’s a simple recipe—no fussy extras, just shrimp …

The first time I tried to make real baklava, I cried. Not dramatic, sobbing tears—just the sort of frustrated, silent tears that come when you realize you’ve buttered yourself into a corner. Phyllo sheets tearing, sticky counters, butter pooling in places it shouldn’t. My youngest, bless him, wandered through the kitchen and asked if I was “making paper crafts or food.” That was enough to make me laugh through it, but the pan of baklava never did set right. We ate it anyway—too sweet, soggy bottom, like eating nuts wrapped in damp tissue paper. Now, my mother (who would’ve been …

The first time I heard the words Beaver Nuggets, I honestly thought my cousin in Dallas was pulling my leg. We were sitting at her kitchen table, back in the early 2000s, when she slid a plastic bag across the counter and said, “Try these.” I figured it was some kind of inside joke, or worse, jerky. But no—it was these sweet, golden, crunchy little clouds. One bite and I was sold. If you’ve ever driven through Texas, you already know about Buc-ee’s. That place is less of a gas station and more of an amusement park for road-weary families. …

It’s funny, the way certain foods just attach themselves to particular moods or seasons in your memory. For me, Apple Pan Dowdy doesn’t belong to Thanksgiving or Christmas, or even to the kinds of gatherings where people are bustling around with clipboards of what they’re bringing. It belongs to the in-between days—the gray, misty Tuesdays, the slightly lonely Fridays where you’re restless but not sure why. The first time I made it, it was one of those bone-chill damp days in late October, years back when the kids were still in high school. I had apples sitting too long on …

There’s something about September that always knocks me a little off balance. The mornings suddenly carry that faint bite in the air, even when the afternoons are still sweltering. The cicadas sound different, like they’re starting to fade out, and then, of course, there’s the business of school schedules again. I don’t have school-aged kids anymore—my youngest is nearly thirty, which I can hardly believe—but even now I can feel that familiar gear shift, the clatter of lunchboxes on the counter, backpacks dropped in the hallway, and me standing at the stove with something sweet baking away, trying to make …

I’ll confess right off: I love deviled eggs the way some people love Christmas morning. I can’t pass a plate of them at a church picnic or a graduation party without hovering a little too long, telling myself I’ll “just take one,” and then sneaking back for another. But the making of them? Lord have mercy. It’s like a punishment in patience. All the peeling, halving, scooping, mashing, piping. I’ve had yolk mixture burst out of those little plastic piping bags like a toothpaste accident, splattering across the counter. More than once I’ve thrown a tea towel over the whole …