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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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So, yes, I realize that brussels sprouts might seen like an odd choice for a Mother’s Day post, but my mom really loves them so I’m rolling with it. As a kid, I avoided brussels sprouts like the plague, but I’ve grown into a total lover of the little green sprout. While I usually like to roast brussels sprouts, I’ve recently been experimenting with using them raw. This is my favorite of the raw incarnations, thus far: a bright, tangy salad with salty slivers of parmesan cheese and prosciutto (or pancetta or bacon, if you’re not feeling vegetarian) to round out the lemony, dijon brightness of the dressing. Mom and I had a similar salad when out to dinner at

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I don’t make nearly enough soup. I ate it for lunch all the time when I lived in NY, but (until recently) there hasn’t been a easy nearby soup place and I often just don’t think about making it at home. So it was a great thing when I came across broccoli in the store and the desire to make soup overcame me. Both broccoli and cauliflower soups are in my top five favorite soups, so I was all pumped about this. Of course, then I got distracted by other things and didn’t remember the soup until it was too late and the broccoli had to be discarded. I hate it when I do that. So I went out, bought

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Artichokes first appeared in my life when I was about ten years old. My brother and I were sitting at the table and my mother set down a dish of steamed artichokes. I was of an age when a heretofore unseen vegetable aroused deep suspicion in me and I watched askance as the other parties at the table began dissecting what looked like strange alien fruits. Learning that the proper method of eating artichokes involved pulling off the leaves and scraping the fleshy bits with one’s teeth did nothing to assuage my misgivings. Faced with the prospect of this unconventional style of eating and the foreign vegetable matter, I declined to participate. Even the prospect of dipping said vegetable into

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