I think it was Demi Moore who once said, “You can’t go home again.” While I don’t personally subscribe to this philosophy and have loved returning home ever since I first left it (especially with a full laundry basket and a checking account in the tens place), I understand the sentiment. Sometimes home is a memory, and those can be impossible to re-create . . . unless, of course, most of your significant memories involve food—as ours do. Then, home is a kitchen to which you can return frequently, armed with enough cheese, bread, and wine to warm the heart of even the most stoic 90s anti-hero. I see you smoking in that swing set, Demi….
The earth shook the day Kyle and I first met 13 years ago. Or perhaps that was the creaking floorboards of the Cracker Barrel dining room where we both waited tables. We were two young (though not so young) kids working our way through dinner shifts and collegiate essays, bonding over a shared love of Harry Potter and cheesy movies, capital B Bits, and so much of the other minutia a friendship is founded upon….
As I’ve mentioned before, I’ll put pesto in or on anything (you should have seen my pesto-covered fedora on St. Patrick’s day this year. Nobody pinched me because my hat was green and I reeked of garlic)….
In our house, we like to say that pesto is gold made green. Because food is our currency, and we’ll eat pesto on anything. It’s great in traditional formats—on noodles, as a dip for bread, on an antipasto platter. But we can get frisky. We mix it into mayo, slather it on pressed sandwiches, bake it into biscuits. …