All Posts By Jennifer

So the other day, I was standing in my kitchen in my favorite pajama pants (you know the ones, with the mystery stain and the loose waistband), staring into the fridge like it owed me answers. It had been one of those days — nothing dramatic, just the usual chaos that somehow feels louder when it’s cold outside and you’re two hours past your ideal dinner time. All I knew was: I needed something warm. Something hearty. Something that didn’t require a trip to the store or a culinary degree. This soup? It checked every single box. And now I …

Savory, buttery, garlicky goodness on a stick. Simple enough for weeknights, fancy enough for company. Alright, real talk. I made these on a whim one night because I had chicken in the fridge and nothing else planned. It was one of those “what can I do with this that feels new, but doesn’t make me want to cry into a cutting board?” nights. You know the ones. Well. These skewers came out of the oven and my husband — who usually eats and mumbles something polite — actually stopped mid-bite and said, “Wow.” Just… wow. That’s when you know. These …

Salty. Creamy. Scoopable. The kinda thing you set out and suddenly it’s gone and everyone’s asking who made it. Let me tell you the honest truth: I almost didn’t share this one. Not because it’s secret (please — secrets don’t live long in my kitchen), but because it’s so simple, I wasn’t sure it even counted as a recipe. I mean… four ingredients. No stove. No oven. No fancy folding or chilling or whisking. Just stir, chill, and scoop. But every time I make it — and I do mean every time — someone asks for the recipe. And I …

The kind of cookie that looks like it belongs at a fancy bakery… but was actually made by a woman in her kitchen at 10pm with a messy bun and a butter-smeared apron. Let me be real with you. The first time I made these, I had no idea what I was doing. I’d written “make something cute” on my to-do list (as if that ever ends well), and I was standing there with a stick of butter in one hand, flour on the floor, and a cookie cutter that had somehow made it into the junk drawer next to …

Soft. Sweet. Smells like a holiday. Feeds your belly and maybe your soul a little too. Okay, let me just say this up front: I did not grow up eating “bread pudding.” It always sounded a little suspicious to me. Bread? In pudding? I thought it was one of those weird recipes only old-timey folks made when they had no choice. Like war-time cooking or something. But then I had some. Not the dry kind. Not the weird cafeteria kind. I mean the real deal — warm, cinnamon-spiced, full of buttery custard and plumped-up raisins that tasted like they’d been …

Zesty, herby, juicy goodness that makes your whole kitchen smell like a vacation in the Mediterranean. So here’s the thing: I love a meal that feels like you put in more effort than you actually did. And this chicken? This is that meal. I’ve been making some version of this since the early 2000s when I went through what I lovingly call my “lemon everything” phase. Lemon cake, lemon pasta, lemon in my iced tea (still love that, by the way). But this dish stuck around the longest. It’s the one I come back to when I want something bright …

The cold side dish that disappears first at every potluck. Always has. Always will. This one takes me back. There’s something about pea salad that just lives in my memory — right next to paper plates on picnic tables, pastel Tupperware bowls, and plastic serving spoons that somehow never made it back home. You know what I mean? My mama used to make this every summer. No matter what else was on the table — fried chicken, deviled eggs, seven-layer dip — the pea salad bowl was the first to be scraped clean. It didn’t matter how much she made. …