Every single year, without fail, I end up having a conversation that goes in one of two ways:

“Oh my god, I cannot believe how early the high holidays are this year!”

OR

“Oh my god, I cannot believe how late the high holidays are this year!”

They never seem to be on time, do they? I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone say, “Wow, Rosh Hashana is just spot on this year. Perfect timing!” They always feel unexpected, even though they have happened literally every single year for like, thousands of years.

I will never forget the one year I tried to have a nice Valentine’s Day. I will also never forget to never try it again.

A few years ago, my fiance had a Valentine’s Day gig at the Rainbow Room and I was able to get on the guest list (don’t be fooled - I am nowhere near as cool as that may sound). Since we had only been dating for a year or so at that point, my plan was to get all dressed up, show him how killer I was and that he should whisk me to City Hall ASAP.

But New York had other plans.

I tend to go through phases with things. Like, intense super powerful phases where I listen to the same album or song over and over and over again, or re-watch the same show no matter how many times I’ve already seen it (this seems to run in the family, especially with How I Met Your Mother). I cannot get enough of this one particular thing, and so I don’t, until I feel ready to move onto the next thing.

We decided we wanted to make purple potato knishes six months ago.

Six. Months. Ago.

Six months ago I lived in a different apartment, with a different roommate, in a different bourough. I had a different job. I had a different life.

And yet. AND YET. These knishes haunted my dreams through it all.

Today's post is written by none other than Rina's amazing mama bear, Ruth! Welcome to the blog, Mama Gato.

Rina always stood on the little green stool.  I stood behind her, her crazy curls tickling my nose as she stretched her tiny fingers to reach the kneading bowl. My grown up hands guided her child hands.  Palm down, fold and turn, palm down, fold and turn, again and again. If the dough was too sticky Rina would make monster fingers with the tacky mess, and I would slowly add small pinches of flour to the bowl.  “Does it feel like an earlobe, yet?”  When Rina’s crazy curls bobbed up and down I would announce, “Then it’s done!”

That was how we made challah every Friday after nursery school.  I showed Rina how to check an egg for blood spots, how to wake up the yeast with warm water and feed it with sugar and then proof it— wait patiently (or not so patiently) for it to froth in the bowl.  This, Rina understood, was what it meant to “make Shabbos.”  The Sabbath did not come on it’s own—if we wanted Friday night to become Shabbos, then we had to make it so. We had to invite the guests, shop for groceries, prepare the meal and set the table.  In this way we transformed the mundane into the holy. A key step to turning an ordinary end-of-the-week dinner into a Shabbos feast was to bake the challah.

They say, when life gives you lemons; make lemonade. Well, dear idiom inventors, what do you do when life gives you pears? And not just a plastic grocery bag of pears - a huge brown bag of them every week for three weeks (thanks, CSA). Well, I say, when life gives you pears, you make some damn delicious pear scones.

Getting three pounds of scones wasn't exactly what I anticipated this season, but it seemed I couldn't eat them fast enough. And while pears are deliciously sweet on their own, there's only so many yogurt adornments, salad additions and snack time treats before you shout "no more!" Gliding past the whole poached pear thing, which was recommended to me by many a co-worker, I began to research ways I could turn pears into something more comforting. Fruit is great and all, but fall means hot cider, cozy sweaters, crunchy leaves and cinnamon baked goods. 

Yesterday, I found out that one of my kickball team's favorite bars closed. It was a pretty tragic revelation for our whole group, to be honest. We had spent many evenings there - from rained-out kickball games to Saturday night skee-ball matches - and, despite the beer towers and stronger-than-words Moscow Mules, we always returned for one thing - the soft pretzels. 

Now, these pretzels were hardly what you're thinking - they didn't come from a heated glass box, spinning on a mindless rotisserie, drying out by the minute. No, these pretzels bigger than your head, fluffy and flavorful, full of thick, bread-like texture and accompanied by an out-of-this-world honey mustard dipping sauce. Exactly what you need before (or after!) a night of drinking with great friends. 

I pride myself on my intellect. I know, deep down, that I am a smart person. I have two degrees, can memorize large swaths of information, and am really good at applying lip liner. A skill is a skill.

Which is why, when I have particularly stupid moments, I just have to laugh. I say to myself, "Hey girl, it's totally fine that you just shattered that glass baking dish by putting ice cubes in it and then transferring it to a 475 degree F oven! You still know so many animal facts!"

Yeah...when a recipe says to use a cast-iron skillet, it isn't a suggestion. Use the cast-iron skillet. Apart from cockroaches, they'll be the only things left after the apocalypse.

I will never forget the one year I tried to have a nice Valentine’s Day. I will also never forget to never try it again.

A few years ago, my fiance had a Valentine’s Day gig at the Rainbow Room and I was able to get on the guest list (don’t be fooled - I am nowhere near as cool as that may sound). Since we had only been dating for a year or so at that point, my plan was to get all dressed up, show him how killer I was and that he should whisk me to City Hall ASAP.

But New York had other plans.

When my fiancé and I started dating, something we loved to talk about was our similar backgrounds. Upon first glance, it might seem like our backgrounds have zero in common: I grew up in a Jewish family in the Michigan suburbs, and he grew up in a non-religious family in “Chicken Village” in Austria. The more we got to know each other, though, the more we realized how much we had in common.

Which is, like, why we’re getting married, I guess.

But anyway.

Sometimes my job is cool.

One day, Rina and I will publish a heartwarming cookbook and entertain you with our kitchen mishaps, yummy recipes and music recommendations full time. Until then, we’ll be side-hustling away while our main hustle brings provides us with money, health insurance and 401K.

Shopping at Trader Joe’s is a dangerous game. You could be perusing the frozen foods section, looking for some fruit to improve your smoothie game when suddenly it catches your eye - the chocolate covered something that you’ve been trying to avoid but your willpower is simply not strong enough.

Guys, I watched this movie on Netflix last night based on a YA novel and I absolutely loved. Don't you dare judge me - I have absolutely no shame in saying I'm a sucker for a good rom-com, especially a teen romcom. It's been a while since one of these graced our screens. I mean, What a Girl Wants? Chasing Liberty? The Princess Diaries? Those are some classics that I still enjoy even to this day! Who says an excellent movie has to be a pretentious foreign film with French subtitles and lots of weird artsy nudity? 

So maybe To All The Boys I Loved Before isn't going to win any Oscars (and a damn shame because Aiden Shaw  was flawless in My Big Fat Greek Wedding and is next-level genius in this one. But it was a heartwarming, relatable story with cute actors, a lovely set and some pretty fantastic editing. It's only fault was how poorly it portrayed winter, really. 

So I think my 27th birthday was one of the best days of my life.

Last Friday marked my 27th turn around the sun, and I got to spend the day with some of the loveliest humans I know. I walked from Morningside Heights to Midtown East through Central Park and saw a man walking 10 dogs at once. I walked from Midtown East to Chelsea and saw so many tourists. Punctuating all of this walking was coffee with new coworkers, brunch with best friends and drinks with my partner. It was already pretty damn lovely.

They say, when life gives you lemons; make lemonade. Well, dear idiom inventors, what do you do when life gives you pears? And not just a plastic grocery bag of pears - a huge brown bag of them every week for three weeks (thanks, CSA). Well, I say, when life gives you pears, you make some damn delicious pear scones.

Getting three pounds of scones wasn't exactly what I anticipated this season, but it seemed I couldn't eat them fast enough. And while pears are deliciously sweet on their own, there's only so many yogurt adornments, salad additions and snack time treats before you shout "no more!" Gliding past the whole poached pear thing, which was recommended to me by many a co-worker, I began to research ways I could turn pears into something more comforting. Fruit is great and all, but fall means hot cider, cozy sweaters, crunchy leaves and cinnamon baked goods. 

The year before I moved to Tel Aviv, I spent a summer volunteering as a first-responder with Magen David Adom, the Israeli ambulance service. You might envision me delivering babies and reattaching limbs, but legally first-responders were allowed to take blood pressure and pulse and that's about. I did get to check the blood sugar of a man who had taken 8 Valium, though. My ambulance driver was pretty rebellious.

When Alyssa and I started this site, we cooked and photographed alone. It was the two of us, an insane amount of groceries ordered online, and a sometimes charged camera blogging in a true frenzy in my bedroom (it had the best light; welcome to New York apartments). Except for an occasional visit from a roommate to taste test or hand model, we were on our own.

I would love to write about how gorgeous and lovely spring has been. To detail its serene arrival, its budding leaves and blue skies.

But I can't write about that.

Why?

Oh, because it is LITERALLY A BLIZZARD OUTSIDE.

New York is a serendipitous place, isn't it? I'm pretty sure there's some god-awful 90's rom-com about just that, but isn't there always some kind of truth even in the cheesiest of things? 

After nearly two years of living mere blocks apart and never running into each other, an old friend and I have bumped into each other two weeks in a row - same time, same place. Living in New York, the hustle and bustle certainly gets to you and we so rarely take a breath and slow things down. Running into him and stopping to chat was almost like taking a deep breath of fresh air in this overcrowded city. It gave me the chance to stop and think, clear my head and remind myself how sometimes life bumps you in weird directions with, what seems like a bullying attitude, but really is just a friendly nudge.

And that's exactly what sangria does. Slows you down (in more ways than one, might I add.)

When I was still in rabbinical school I took a summer course on feminist literary references to Eve (as in, first woman ever Eve). It was an amazing class that incidentally-but-not-surprisingly was all-women, taught by a badass woman. We learned all about Eve and what had been written about her - the good and the bad but usually the bad - as well as stories about the actual first woman, Lillith, who was banished by God because she wanted to be equal to Adam and quite literally wanted to be on top. So yeah, God in this story is super into smashing the patriarchy.

Sometimes, I wonder if Rina and I should write a Gateau | Gato children's book.

Sure, sure, we drop a lot of f-bombs and highly encourage adding alcohol to any and all of our recipes, but the lessons we learn in the kitchen are life lessons. Take this milkshake, for example. Or, as Rina calls it, this extra milkshake (I still don't really understand what extra is either, don't worry). This milkshake started off as a quest to bake an unbelievably delectable homemade bumpy cake, which apparently, is something of a Detroit delicacy, as I've come to learn. 

Without naming names, or body parts, somehow the oven knob got turned up way too high and the cake dried out before we could even realize it. Talk about a bummer. Turns out, it was for the best, as the cake was pretty flavorless in and of itself. Lesson 1: Everything happens for a reason.

After a certain point, living in New York becomes almost natural. I  say almost because mysterious subway stenches will never be considered natural, but after a bit of adjustment, the big city mellows enough to make any transplant feel at home. Or at least, said transplant finds the mellow among the chaos. 

I've been here for over three years now, and while I've never considered myself a New Yorker, I feel I have the city down pretty well. I know how to outsmart the closing doors, maneuver reckless bikers and eat delectably while on a budget. Despite this, I still find myself surprised by the small things this city quietly offers. Like the tiny corner farmers market just outside Morningside Park. Rina and I went with the intention of meeting Susie's Senior Dogs (more on that, later, we promise), and left with a bottle of the most understated alcohol I've ever encountered: apple brandy. 

So apparently there is a debate in the scientific world over whether or not the color pink exists.

You read that right.  There are people in the world claiming that the color pink may be be a figment of our collective imagination.

Guys, job hunting sucks.

It really, really sucks.

This is not a novel concept, and I am sure you have heard this before, but dear god it is horrific.

I will never forget the first time I saw a recipe-sharing site online (I am the least sorry if that dates me). I was at a friend’s apartment my sophomore year of college and we were hanging out in her living room with her roommate. I noticed her roommate was looking at this page full of gorgeous food pics and I asked her what it was.

“Oh, it’s just TasteSpotting.”

“Just?! What do you mean, just?!” I loudly thought in my head. “This is effing amazing!”

“Oh, cool!” I said calmly, feigning a sense of decorum in public.

Since I didn’t get a smartphone (again, dating myself?) until my senior year of college (mmhmm), I waited until I got home to check it out. And oh baby, I don’t think I’ve stopped looking at photos of food since.

Have you missed us? Sorry we went MIA, but This Is Us was on hiatus, so we thought we’d take a break too.

Kidding, of course. But we do apologize for the break — some of us were traveling a lot this summer.

And by some of us, I mean me.

But I had a magical summer crossing timezones to visit Japan, and don’t worry — I was thinking about you the whole time. Well, more thinking about what delicious treats Rina and I could recreate for you all!

One of my sisters just moved to New York, and I’m ecstatic. Like, cow-jumped-over-the-moon level happy. I haven’t lived in the same city as one of my immediate family members since I moved away for college, and now she and I can wave at each other from across the East River.

My mama came into town a week or so ago to help her move in, which meant lots of Bed Bath & Beyond and Target runs, and lots of eating. We had weird amount of misses this trip; weird because after being in New York for a while I’ve found my spots that I can rely on for a solid lunch or dinner, and we just missed the mark a bit.

Yesterday, I accidentally got sucked into reading about cults.

Yes, I know, the irony kills me too, but honestly reading about cults is just a deep dark hole on the Internet. And while I have no plans to join a cult any time soon, The New York Times and New York Magazine instilled a fear in me so real, I think I’ll be avoiding Kool-Aid and self-help anything for the rest of my life.

There’s this blazer I’ve been stalking for months on the Internet.

Most people stalk their exes or that new hire at work who seems way too quiet, but I stalk blazers. One specific blazer to be exact. At regular retail, it’s well out of the price range I’m comfortable impulse buying at. But on sale - oh, on sale, it fits snugly in that range. Add some rewards points and I finally had myself a “click through to check out.”

When I was in high school, I would spend entire winter vacations at our family friends’ house in Ann Arbor, about 30 minutes from where I grew up. Our parents were really close, and so it was only natural that me and their older daughter would become close as well. To this day we have zero idea how we became friends, and we have tried our absolute hardest to pinpoint the moment it happened. As of now, the assumption is we just woke up one day and, in a puff of magical smoke, we were friends.

My entire family is either vegetarian or vegan; meat hasn’t made an appearance in my parents’ house since, like, maybe 2010. This makes mealtimes and restaurant choices extremely easy. Holiday menus that revolve almost exclusively around a giant bird that wasn’t lucky enough to receive a presidential pardon, though? Not so much.

I successfully made it through 5 years of living in New York without a mouse problem. Sure, there were the pantry moths and that teeny-tiny roach infestation in my building and a rogue “what the FUCK IS THAT” every once in a while, but as far as I knew, I had gone through my life here without a single Mickey or Minnie in sight.

Until last week.

I spent two hours last night writing and re-writing this post.

Writer’s block — it happens more often than we care to admit. Usually, I can defeat it by just sitting down, shifting into “writing mode” and typing out whatever story comes to mind. Last night, however, that was not working. I wanted to tell you guys a funny story that started with a friend setting off a smoke alarm at midnight while cooking chicken and ended with me bragging about how I’m my father (the homebuilder)’s most handy child.

You never believe it till you hit it, but being in your twenties is like free falling without a parachute. For whatever reason, when you’re a kid and a teen and even in college, you imagine you’ll have everything sorted out once you’re in your twenties. I blame TV for this, mostly. Twenty-something sitcoms are notoriously inaccurate. But they do get one thing right - something you completely neglect to appreciate until you’re chin-deep, flailing about the most confusing decade of your life thus far.

You find comfort in the oddest places.

I never thought I’d consider getting a haircut an oddly intimate experience. Intimacy is reserved for people you’ve dated, family members, a handful of good friends. Probably a doctor or two. Maybe, the woman who gives you bikini waxes. But never hair stylists. Or so I thought.

When I lived in Jerusalem (OH MY GOD YOU LIVED IN JERUSALEM YOU NEVER TALK ABOUT IT), I was invited to a friend’s for Shabbat lunch and was tasked with making a side dish. I decided to explore my horizons and make something I’d never made before, and for some reason settled on mashed butternut squash with feta and pomegranate seeds.

Which like, sounded delicious.

But boy was it a mess.

I know what you're thinking. Another salad. Right? Well, let me tell you, there's no such thing as too many salads. I've mentioned before that salads are traditionally thought of as boring, but what if I told you that this salad was packed with so much flavor it would almost make you forget how healthy for you it is?

I've been binge-reading a column on The Cut called "I Think About This a Lot"and it is brilliant. BRILLIANT. Each article is about a meme or shared cultural experience that the author, well, thinks about a lot. There's one about Baby Jessica, one about Kanye West saying that George Bush doesn't care about black people, and so on. But the article in which I truly see myself is: "I Think About the Gossip Girl Murder Confession a Lot."

I've been told I'm a great salad maker. It's a weird thing to be proud of, but damn am I proud of it. If there's one that gets a bad rap it's salads. I think the American food system has made people associate salads with sad iceberg lettuce, pieces or purple cabbage and mushy tomatoes doused in ranch or Thousand Island dressing. 

Sad, indeed.

In my dream world, Rina and I work in a light filled studio with professional equipment. Our kitchen is white and full of state-of-the-art stainless steel appliances and large windows. Our counters are covered with fresh flowers; our workplace filled with props and kitchenware that photograph wonderfully. Jon Hamm makes frequent visits and Ina Garten does cooking demos for us. It's a pretty damn great place to be.

But, sadly, my magical powers haven't kicked in yet, so we have to work with what we have on hand. If that means shooting in Rina's bedroom, where the sunlight is, or doing dishes every six minutes to keep her tiny sink from overflowing, then so be it. It's all part of the process that hopefully one day we can look back and laugh at. Anyone who's stopped by or been privy to the tornado that is our recipe testing and shooting days (hi, Cornelia!) knows that's it's basically a hot mess. But it's something we love nonetheless. 

Six years ago, when I moved into my first NYC apartment, I recruited my dad to help me get situated. It was an easy sell — I’m his only daughter and was a bundle of nerves, as any recently graduate would be. While I was at work, he got a head start on building the IKEA furniture and setting up my bed so I didn’t have to sleep on an air mattress. It was a no-brainer for him, a homebuilder.

When I got home at the end of the day, he gifted me not one, but two toolkits. A cute purple one filled with every single tool you would ever need — including a saw with three different blades, which, to this day, is still in it’s plastic casing, untouched. The second toolkit was less fancy, but had about twelves or so screwdrivers, you know, just in case. He teased me that the toolkits were filled with “boyfriend testers" — the purple screwdriver was cute, but the one with the interchangeable heads was the real gold ticket. Plus the saw, of course.

Sometimes my job is cool.

One day, Rina and I will publish a heartwarming cookbook and entertain you with our kitchen mishaps, yummy recipes and music recommendations full time. Until then, we’ll be side-hustling away while our main hustle brings provides us with money, health insurance and 401K.

Have you missed us? Sorry we went MIA, but This Is Us was on hiatus, so we thought we’d take a break too.

Kidding, of course. But we do apologize for the break — some of us were traveling a lot this summer.

And by some of us, I mean me.

But I had a magical summer crossing timezones to visit Japan, and don’t worry — I was thinking about you the whole time. Well, more thinking about what delicious treats Rina and I could recreate for you all!

When I first moved to New York City, a feat I never in a million years though I’d ever choose to do, I was terrified. Not just because I didn’t know many people in the city, but also because New York was so massive and full of crazy people who talk to their hands and shout at strangers.

Ah, 2019. Hello there! You snuck up on us rather quickly. We had plans! We had goals! We had holiday-themed posts! And all of that got lost in the end-of-year, pre-holiday chaos.

But yet, here you are. So, we will try to make a comeback. For our own sanities. Because we’ve missed you so much.

I’m not really one for “new year” hype. Too much pressure, too much buzz, too many people at the gym. There is one thing, however, that I’m super excited about. It’s a book.

My entire family is either vegetarian or vegan; meat hasn’t made an appearance in my parents’ house since, like, maybe 2010. This makes mealtimes and restaurant choices extremely easy. Holiday menus that revolve almost exclusively around a giant bird that wasn’t lucky enough to receive a presidential pardon, though? Not so much.

We decided we wanted to make purple potato knishes six months ago.

Six. Months. Ago.

Six months ago I lived in a different apartment, with a different roommate, in a different bourough. I had a different job. I had a different life.

And yet. AND YET. These knishes haunted my dreams through it all.

Three times a year, my company offers a free book drop. They send out a list of about 75 titles and you get to pick seven that will magically appear on your desk 3-5 business days later. Granted, you can always email publicists and editors around the company to ask for a specific book, but there's something extra-special about the free book drop. 

Six years ago, when I moved into my first NYC apartment, I recruited my dad to help me get situated. It was an easy sell — I’m his only daughter and was a bundle of nerves, as any recently graduate would be. While I was at work, he got a head start on building the IKEA furniture and setting up my bed so I didn’t have to sleep on an air mattress. It was a no-brainer for him, a homebuilder.

When I got home at the end of the day, he gifted me not one, but two toolkits. A cute purple one filled with every single tool you would ever need — including a saw with three different blades, which, to this day, is still in it’s plastic casing, untouched. The second toolkit was less fancy, but had about twelves or so screwdrivers, you know, just in case. He teased me that the toolkits were filled with “boyfriend testers" — the purple screwdriver was cute, but the one with the interchangeable heads was the real gold ticket. Plus the saw, of course.

There’s been a debate in my office about how to pronounce the word “orange.” The Midwesterners of the group (hi) pronounce it the correct way, “oh-range,” and the East Coasters (hi mom) say “ah-range,” which is blatantly incorrect. It’s caused quite a stir in our workplace proximity relationships.

Aren’t we fun?

Also, sorry mom.

Anyway!

Ah, 2019. Hello there! You snuck up on us rather quickly. We had plans! We had goals! We had holiday-themed posts! And all of that got lost in the end-of-year, pre-holiday chaos.

But yet, here you are. So, we will try to make a comeback. For our own sanities. Because we’ve missed you so much.

I’m not really one for “new year” hype. Too much pressure, too much buzz, too many people at the gym. There is one thing, however, that I’m super excited about. It’s a book.

We decided we wanted to make purple potato knishes six months ago.

Six. Months. Ago.

Six months ago I lived in a different apartment, with a different roommate, in a different bourough. I had a different job. I had a different life.

And yet. AND YET. These knishes haunted my dreams through it all.

Today, I saw Bradley Cooper in the NYC wild.

What normally would have been a typical Wednesday with great weather, quickly became a glorious afternoon. I can’t take credit for the first sighting, though. My assistant saw him first. Obviously, the most logical next step would be to grab the nearest coworker and go get a coffee from the cafe next door to Bradley’s lunch spot. We certainly weren’t what I’d call covert, but we mastered the slow-walk and side-eye.

I've lived in New York for a while now, and there are some things I don't think I'll ever get over: the view of the Manhattan skyline from Brooklyn Bridge park, pizza availability at 3 AM, access to some of the best museums and music in the world.

Oh, and the ACCEPTABILITY OF A 15% BROKERS FEE.

It should come as a surprise to no one that Ann Arbor's been on my mind lately. Committing four years of your life somewhere will do that to you. But while my time at Michigan was filled with adventure and my first real heartbreak, there was one thing that Ann Arbor never lacked in. And that's food. 

Living in New York, I'm truly spoiled by the over-abundance of world-class restaurants at my disposal. I mean you could essentially close your eyes, spin around and point your finger at anywhere on a map and you're bound to find somewhere wonderful to tickle your palate. But Ann Arbor really brought it's A game. Of course, you have the super-famous Zingerman's deli - everyone's favorite sandwich-spot, but there were quite a few others that popped over over my four years. Mani Osteria had the wood-burning oven pizza down and I still dream about Isalita's steak nachos. But one restaurant I never got around to visiting was Aventura, owned by the same woman who ran Sava's, another Ann Arbor favorite of mine.

As I sit at my desk on this blustery afternoon, my mind naturally turns to what I'm going to eat for dinner. Do I want to spend a couple hours at the grocery store, stirring and measuring and roasting after a long day?

Fuck no. I want a bowl the size of my head filled with guacamole. With some crunchy things to dip thrown in for balance. A reasonable request, I would say.

I have to dedicate this post to my brother, Alex, who shares my boundless admiration for both French Onion Soup and John Mayer.

French Onion Soup was one of those treats my mom never exposed us to. I’m not totally sure if that was because of its richness or because she didn’t know how to cook it, but either way, I remember the day I had my first bowl vividly.

My partner and I run on completely opposite schedules. I wake up at around 7:00 each morning to get ready for work and ease into my day, while he stays burritoed for a few more hours. By the time I get home from work, anywhere from 7:15 to 9:00 or later, he’s already well on his way to a gig. Once he’s home, I’m the burritoed one.

Now that we live together we see each other a bit more than we used to, but not by much. What to do? Stuff a week’s worth of dates into one Sunday. Normal!

Editor's note: Today, we have a very special guest blogger, Alyssa's mom! She's the brains behind this majestic soup, so we thought it was only appropriate that she share her inspiration with us. On a related note, give your mom a call today!

When my daughter, Alyssa, was little she loved to help cook in the kitchen. Being the neat freak I am, and hating a mess, I was always reluctant to let her help. Alyssa takes after her Maga (grandmother and my mother). Translation: both are a tornado in the kitchen.

Hello, sweater weather! It is about damn time that the city cooled down - don't get me wrong, I love my tank dresses and jelly sandals, but I am giving a hearty goodbye to 150 degree subway platforms and that terrible first drip of sweat down the back. You know what I'm talking about - why is that first drip so horrific?

Anyway, I usually eat soup all year round because it is DELICIOUS, but eating soup in the summer is a very different experience from eating it in the fall. In the summer, I eat soup with a fan in front of my face, enjoying my food but questioning my life choices. In the fall though, eating soup is an easy, delicious comfort in the face of cooling weather and darkening skies. Alyssa and I are very big fans of soup, and are constantly looking for new recipes.

There are so many things I loved about living in Israel, but something that always irked me was the lack of seasons. Except for a few days of snow during my time in Jerusalem, the weather was hot, kind of hot, extremely hot, or cool-ish. No blizzards, no super strong windy days. Lots of humidity. And definitely no changing leaves. That's what I missed the most about home, I think, besides my family (duh - hi guys!) - I'm from Michigan, land of beautiful fall foliage and autocratic automobile executives.

The post-college, pre-kids stage is a time when friendships feel crucial. Especially since I'm living in a separate state from my family, I rely on my friends (and boyfriend, but that's for another time) for the day-to-day social interactions and trouble-shooting. Over my time in New York, my friends have accompanied me to various doctor's appointments that have felt scary, and I have done the same for them.  Yes, we are adult women who are perfectly capable of going to the doctor's on our own.  That isn't the point; the point is that we are there to support each other through the parts of life that are happy and exciting of course, but also scary and upsetting.

Every single year, without fail, I end up having a conversation that goes in one of two ways:

“Oh my god, I cannot believe how early the high holidays are this year!”

OR

“Oh my god, I cannot believe how late the high holidays are this year!”

They never seem to be on time, do they? I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone say, “Wow, Rosh Hashana is just spot on this year. Perfect timing!” They always feel unexpected, even though they have happened literally every single year for like, thousands of years.

Just like the rest of you, we had plans. And just like the rest of you, this year kinda messed said plans up.

We’ve spent months apart — very unusual considering how many weekends I cook up a storm in Rina’s tiny kitchen — but it’s been a whirlwind, and we’re grateful we’ve been able to meet for outdoor dinners and walks when we can. And now, all these months later, here we are, near the end of peach season — can you believe it? Who knew a year could go by so fast and so slow at the same time.

Tis’ that time of year where cookies unabashedly take center stage. Halloween gets candy, July 4th gets cookouts, Passover gets matzah and December holidays get cookies. Of course, for us, December means Hanukkah, which means lots and lots of things fried in oil. And stuffed to the gills with halva and vanilla bean custard. But that’s just us.

Sometimes my job is cool.

One day, Rina and I will publish a heartwarming cookbook and entertain you with our kitchen mishaps, yummy recipes and music recommendations full time. Until then, we’ll be side-hustling away while our main hustle brings provides us with money, health insurance and 401K.

Do you ever see a recipe and just, like, die a little?

Like maybe it shows up in your Instagram feed, totally unannounced. Or perhaps it appears in an email newsletter, taking your focus away from the seventeen meetings you have going on that day.

You see that recipe, and you know at first sight that it is yours, and you will love it until the end of time.

Think I’m being over-dramatic? Read the recipe title again.

SALTED. CARAMEL. PRETZEL. BLONDIES.

HELLO.

Cooking for a food blog takes a LOT of groceries. I’ve written about this before, but I never ordered groceries online until we started this site - I love doing my own shopping in person, but when I need to get seven recipe’s worth of food for one day, it can get heavy. Add in the occasional five-pound bag of flour refill and no car, and it’s a recipe (I’m not sorry) for an order from my couch.

I tend to go through phases with things. Like, intense super powerful phases where I listen to the same album or song over and over and over again, or re-watch the same show no matter how many times I’ve already seen it (this seems to run in the family, especially with How I Met Your Mother). I cannot get enough of this one particular thing, and so I don’t, until I feel ready to move onto the next thing.

There’s been a debate in my office about how to pronounce the word “orange.” The Midwesterners of the group (hi) pronounce it the correct way, “oh-range,” and the East Coasters (hi mom) say “ah-range,” which is blatantly incorrect. It’s caused quite a stir in our workplace proximity relationships.

Aren’t we fun?

Also, sorry mom.

Anyway!