Lately, my heart is extra full of love for this little guy. What a catch. Lately, when he's sitting next to me just chilling out, he'll lean over and give my hand a quick little lick. Melts my heart.
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Monday, February 10, 2014
{Recipe Share} Easy Homemade Soft Pretzels
Here it is: that amazing soft pretzel recipe I promised some of you. This batch was extra special because my husband actually formed most of the pretzels.
Soft Pretzels
4 teaspoons yeast + 1 teaspoon sugar + 1 1/4 cup warm water
3 1/2 cups flour plus an additional 1/2 cup
2 Tablespoons butter, melted
1/3 cup sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt (plus more for garnish)
heaping 1/4 cup baking soda
2 cups water
melted butter for topping
In a small bowl or liquid measuring cup, dissolve water, sugar and yeast. Let sit for 10 minutes (until frothy). Meanwhile, mix together sugar, salt, and 3 1/2 cups flour in a large bowl. Using finger or spoon, create a small well in the center of the mixture. Pour melted butter followed by yeast mixture into the well. With a wooden spoon, mix until combined. Using either a stand mixer with dough hook or your hands, knead dough, slowly adding additional 1/2 cup flour. Knead for 4-6 minutes if using mixer, 7-10 minutes if using hands.
Turn oven to 400 degrees F for 1 minute and then turn off. Lightly oil large bowl and transfer dough. Cover with a dampened lightweight towel and place inside warmed oven. Let rise for 1 hour or until doubled in size.
Remove dough from oven and set heat to 425. In another bowl, microwave baking soda and water for 3 minutes. Stir until baking soda dissolves. Oil or lightly flour your surface and turn out the dough. Divide into 12 equal sections.
Roll each piece into a rope (the "jump rope" method--holding each end and swinging dough--works well). Twist each piece into a pretzel. Gently dip pretzels into the hot water/baking soda mixture and transfer to a cookie sheet lined with parchment paper (6 pretzels per tray). Sprinkle with kosher salt and bake on middle rack for 8-10 minutes or until browned. Remove and brush with melted butter.
Once cooled, store in an airtight container or freeze for future use.
***
These are so tasty. We may or may not have devoured all twelve in one night...
Enjoy! Tell me what you think!
*NOTE: This recipe from Pink Pistachio.
Joanne Ozug at Fifteen Spatulas has a great recipe for these as well. The dough only needs to raise for 30 minutes rather than an hour. That one requires instant rise yeast. If you try both recipes, let me know which one is your favorite!
Saturday, February 8, 2014
A Bouquet of Dirty Laundry
The other day, as I took our wet laundry from the washer to transfer to the dryer, I noticed a white something peeking out from one of the husband's dark shirts that had just been washed. I pulled it out, and sure enough, it was one of his undershirts.
I had let one get by me.
It is part of my routine to pull out Preston's underclothing from his pants and shirts as I sort clothes to be put away or laundered. When we first got married I did not know to look for these hidden clothes and often accidentally washed his light clothing with our darks. Now I almost instinctively reach for those hiding undergarments.
I'll admit that sometimes I still get so frustrated by extra, unnecessary jobs like this. I find myself thinking, 'Honestly, how hard is it to separate clothing once removed?' or 'How difficult is it to take the dish with you when you stand up?' As newlyweds in our tiny apartment, we'd walk around the kitchen in circles, he in front, opening cupboards to retrieve an item, and me in back, shutting them after he moved on, huffing and puffing in exaggerated annoyance. It was, in truth, a bit laughable. I began to call these little habits "Signs of Preston"--things that reminded me that he was here, with me, whole and well. ({This} unnerving experience last year served as a great motivator to be grateful for this man of mine.)
However, for the most part, I am over these frustrations.
You see, I found my "go-to." You know, that one thing you know will express love? Yep: It's as simple as pulling out those white shirts.
By common stereotype, men can just buy flowers. Women don't have it so easy. I tried hidden notes, surprise picnics, creative gifts. Once, I bought Preston a plant. I complained to him that girls can't just up and go to the store to buy men flowers for a quick "I love you," and he returned my moaning with a why not. So I got him a plant. And I ended up watering it and watching it die.
One day, after a particularly exhausting work load, Preston walked in the door, kicked off his shoes, dropped his bag on the floor, and slumped on the couch, propping his feet up with a sigh. After hanging up his bag and putting away his shoes I sat next to him and asked about his day. He began to tell me about work but then stopped, grabbing my hand and looking me in the eye. "Thank you," he said, "for everything you do for me." Surprised by his turn, I just looked at him. He began to list off the things he was grateful for: my putting away his shoes and bag, my doing the laundry, my closing his cupboard doors, my making the bed, my patience with his idiosyncrasies, my cooking dinner, my washing the dishes.
That's when I realized that I had my go-to. All of my huffing and puffing around the kitchen tying up loose ends was accomplishing exactly what I had been seeking: to show my husband how much I truly loved him.
And now whenever I find myself tempted to roll my eyes at an abandoned cereal bowl or an open cupboard, I remember that taking care of those things is much easier than buying flowers. Really, it's win-win--I love an orderly house and my husband deserves to feel loved. And by every morning pulling out that white undershirt stuck beneath its counterpart, I am accomplishing both.
Thanks for being so lovable, husband.
~K
DISCLAIMER: I do need to clarify that Preston is actually a very clean fellow and a pretty tidy one, too. Also, he likes grocery shopping, which I hate, so he is allotted at least 5 pieces of strewn clothing for every shopping trip he takes in my stead.
I had let one get by me.
It is part of my routine to pull out Preston's underclothing from his pants and shirts as I sort clothes to be put away or laundered. When we first got married I did not know to look for these hidden clothes and often accidentally washed his light clothing with our darks. Now I almost instinctively reach for those hiding undergarments.
I'll admit that sometimes I still get so frustrated by extra, unnecessary jobs like this. I find myself thinking, 'Honestly, how hard is it to separate clothing once removed?' or 'How difficult is it to take the dish with you when you stand up?' As newlyweds in our tiny apartment, we'd walk around the kitchen in circles, he in front, opening cupboards to retrieve an item, and me in back, shutting them after he moved on, huffing and puffing in exaggerated annoyance. It was, in truth, a bit laughable. I began to call these little habits "Signs of Preston"--things that reminded me that he was here, with me, whole and well. ({This} unnerving experience last year served as a great motivator to be grateful for this man of mine.)
However, for the most part, I am over these frustrations.
You see, I found my "go-to." You know, that one thing you know will express love? Yep: It's as simple as pulling out those white shirts.
By common stereotype, men can just buy flowers. Women don't have it so easy. I tried hidden notes, surprise picnics, creative gifts. Once, I bought Preston a plant. I complained to him that girls can't just up and go to the store to buy men flowers for a quick "I love you," and he returned my moaning with a why not. So I got him a plant. And I ended up watering it and watching it die.
One day, after a particularly exhausting work load, Preston walked in the door, kicked off his shoes, dropped his bag on the floor, and slumped on the couch, propping his feet up with a sigh. After hanging up his bag and putting away his shoes I sat next to him and asked about his day. He began to tell me about work but then stopped, grabbing my hand and looking me in the eye. "Thank you," he said, "for everything you do for me." Surprised by his turn, I just looked at him. He began to list off the things he was grateful for: my putting away his shoes and bag, my doing the laundry, my closing his cupboard doors, my making the bed, my patience with his idiosyncrasies, my cooking dinner, my washing the dishes.
That's when I realized that I had my go-to. All of my huffing and puffing around the kitchen tying up loose ends was accomplishing exactly what I had been seeking: to show my husband how much I truly loved him.
And now whenever I find myself tempted to roll my eyes at an abandoned cereal bowl or an open cupboard, I remember that taking care of those things is much easier than buying flowers. Really, it's win-win--I love an orderly house and my husband deserves to feel loved. And by every morning pulling out that white undershirt stuck beneath its counterpart, I am accomplishing both.
Thanks for being so lovable, husband.
~K
DISCLAIMER: I do need to clarify that Preston is actually a very clean fellow and a pretty tidy one, too. Also, he likes grocery shopping, which I hate, so he is allotted at least 5 pieces of strewn clothing for every shopping trip he takes in my stead.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Tales: Air-Born and Starving
Being hungry makes me do things I otherwise would not.
In college, while on a ten hour flight home from London, I asked the sophisticated British grandmother next to me if she was "going to eat that," gesturing to her unopened packaged roll from dinner. I had already scarfed down all of my food and the flight attendants would be coming by soon to pick up the trash. She looked at my empty plate, paused to consider this bold, thrifty American way, and then with a little bit of youthful pep said, "Oh, well, no, I am not. You eat it." As she leaned away from her food to give me space to grab the precious roll, she let out a reserved, very British smile.
When I think back to that moment, I am often shocked at myself. I'm sure I figured that asking about her uneaten food was no big deal since we had already been seat mates for hours. We'd talked about politics, her children and how they loved horses and dogs more than her desire for grandchildren ("Truly British," she'd said. "Dogs and horses."), her husband, her travel plans, and other little life details. I guess sharing food was the only thing left to develop in our air-born relationship. Or maybe I simply considered that in a few more hours I would never see her again. Either way, at times I am shocked that I did such a thing.
And then there are other times when I am not so shocked--like right now as I sit on a plane, slowly nibbling my fifth package of Biscoff cookies within three days with a narrow hope that wheat flour, sugar, and vegetable oil can hold me over until landing when I can finally scavenge for food. At times like this I cease to believe that my actions on that plane home from London were irrational.
For some people it's love, for others money. For me, it's totally food.
In college, while on a ten hour flight home from London, I asked the sophisticated British grandmother next to me if she was "going to eat that," gesturing to her unopened packaged roll from dinner. I had already scarfed down all of my food and the flight attendants would be coming by soon to pick up the trash. She looked at my empty plate, paused to consider this bold, thrifty American way, and then with a little bit of youthful pep said, "Oh, well, no, I am not. You eat it." As she leaned away from her food to give me space to grab the precious roll, she let out a reserved, very British smile.
When I think back to that moment, I am often shocked at myself. I'm sure I figured that asking about her uneaten food was no big deal since we had already been seat mates for hours. We'd talked about politics, her children and how they loved horses and dogs more than her desire for grandchildren ("Truly British," she'd said. "Dogs and horses."), her husband, her travel plans, and other little life details. I guess sharing food was the only thing left to develop in our air-born relationship. Or maybe I simply considered that in a few more hours I would never see her again. Either way, at times I am shocked that I did such a thing.
And then there are other times when I am not so shocked--like right now as I sit on a plane, slowly nibbling my fifth package of Biscoff cookies within three days with a narrow hope that wheat flour, sugar, and vegetable oil can hold me over until landing when I can finally scavenge for food. At times like this I cease to believe that my actions on that plane home from London were irrational.
For some people it's love, for others money. For me, it's totally food.
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