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I have no business writing a recipe blog. I don’t measure. I don’t plate things beautifully. I don’t have a sentimental story about my grandmother’s cast iron. I was just hungry, and we had andouille, chicken, and homemade stock. So I made food-processor gumbo, probably offended someone somewhere, and it was absolutely delicious.
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One overconfident peel transfer, one stubborn sourdough crust, and suddenly my perfect pizza night turned into a melted, folded crime scene. Reader: I have now made the case for a pizza screen.
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The garden is in full, glorious chaos: messy, generous, and buzzing with life. We’ve eaten so well this summer, and I can feel the season starting to turn. But for now… Still plenty. Still alive.
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The tomatoes have taken over. Romas, cherries, San Marzanos… on every surface and in every bowl. We’re buried in red, saucy glory, and I’m not even mad. (Dean might be.)
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When a deviled egg platter becomes a lineup of delicious offenders. From pickled currant tomatoes to smoked salmon and dill, this is one kitchen crime spree worth savoring.
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You want actual humility? Try realizing, halfway through the summer, that there’s a very good reason you never blogged before: you have nothing interesting to say. Here I am, tapping away… and even I’m bored reading it. If that’s not humbling, I don’t know what is.
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The bugs won a battle today: I had to pull the nasturtium patch and a thriving San Marzano tomato plant that was becoming an all-you-can-eat buffet. It hurt. But the garden offered up a massive beet-shaped consolation prize.
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The aphids feasted, the ladybugs ghosted, and the nasturtium gave up the ghost. It might be time to pull the trap plants and face the fallout. Here’s hoping the tomatoes hang on.
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The zucchini, cucumbers, beans, and potatoes are showing off. We’re harvesting far more than we can use, and it feels like a joyful problem to have. Some goes to family. Some goes to neighbors. And some goes to the little food pantry at the library, where it always disappears by the next day.
Soil to Story
We grow things. We make things. Sometimes we even finish them.
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Welcome to our little slice of not-quite-a-farm.
We left Seattle and settled on a couple acres in Tacoma: enough room for a big garden, a workshop big enough for any fantasy, and a future full of slow-made things.
Right now, we’re digging up rocks (so many rocks), planting beds where there used to be lawn, cooking with what we grow, and building things.
The “back 40” might hold sunflowers, or corn, chickens, or goats someday, but for now, it’s just holding possibilities.
Soil to Story is where it all comes together: the garden, the workshop, the kitchen, and Paper Trail, my custom memory book studio. This is a work-in-progress kind of life, shared one dirty, delicious, half-baked story at a time.
