holiday
Green Bean Casserole from Scratch | Peaches Please

 What? You didn’t think I was serious about getting my holiday on? That’s hilarious. I love the whole holiday season. The smells, lights, music, shiny pretty things…it’s all pretty much designed to inject happy straight into my veins. But you know what I’ve never really been into? Green bean casserole. It’s one of those quintessential Thanksgiving dishes, but something about the mixture of tinned green beans, canned cream of mushroom soup and that weird container of shelf-stable onions straws just creeps me out. However, I know that many of my friends love green bean casserole, so I decided to see if I could come up with a version made from scratch that would get rid of my casserole heebie-jeebies. I

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Cranberry Galettes | Peaches Please

Alright, Team. Halloween is over, the leaves are actually changing in Georgia and it’s November…That’s right. It’s Thanksgiving season. Game on. I thought I’d get the turkey day ball rolling with my these cranberry galettes, because, well, I like baking. I also really like baking with cranberries. I think it’s something about how vibrant cranberries are. I mean, the color alone is just gorgeous. Then there’s the flavor – super tart with a hint of bitterness. Love it or hate it, you have to admit that cranberries are unabashedly what they are, which is a trait I admire in life. Speaking of being unabashedly oneself, I’ve been watching an Australian television show lately called the Miss Fisher Mysteries, a period

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Have I told you about my crazy love of corn dogs? I mean, I like a good hot dog, but a corn dog is just something else entirely. Juicy, mystery meat goodness speared on a stick and wrapped in sweet corn batter and fried. What could it be but love? I just don’t understand why Jimmy Buffett hasn’t written a song about them. Okay, to be fair, the mystery meat component sometimes lurks as a question mark in the back of my head, because I tend to like knowing what’s in my food. Unless it’s fish sauce. I have zero desire to know what fish sauce is made of. But seriously, sometimes when I eat hotdogs I can hear Joan

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Oh Christmas morning. When I was little, I used to sleep in my big brother’s room the night before Christmas. We’d wake up obscenely early and giggle and peer down the shadowy staircase; waiting for our parents to wake up. When our whispers started tending towards shrieks and tiptoes to the thumping of running back and forth between our rooms, my dad would blearily emerge from his room, wrapping his robe around him. We lived in Wisconsin, so things like robes and slippers were necessities. Mom and I waited upstairs while the boys went down to stoke the fire, make hot chocolate (and coffee) and get everything ready. And when I say “we waited upstairs,” I mean Mom took her

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