Souffle Confessions: How I lost my kitchen virginity to a French madame

It all started with the sort of daring that borders on hubris: I've never made souffle, I've never even (gasp) had souffle, so probably a smart thing to do is to have a friend over on a Saturday morning and just try to make it, right? So there we were, two souffle virgins, two aprons, and a world of food blogs to fuel the fire. A little poking around lead me, like a lamb to the slaughter,

Troubleshooting Cinnamon RollsOr the flattening of my dough and ego

Sometimes it is said, “Love means never having to say you are sorry.” Whoever said that is a chump. In my book, love means being ready to admit to the litany of your mistakes, most of which originate from being stubborn, pigheaded, and/or egotistical. Love means standing up and being willing to admit when you were wrong. And so, dear readers, because I love you, I am here to admit that I was

The Great Zabaglione Caper

It’s late, a little after eleven in the evening. The alleyway is soaked in shadows as I move in. My trench coat rustles against my feet. I have my collar turned up against the drizzle. The film noir scene is complete. “Is that the victim?” I gruffly ask an officer. “Yes, ma’am.” I click my tongue. What a sad sad way to end up. I lean in closer, too hard-boiled a detective to be shocked by the