The Hubster's Grilled Turkey Sandwich with Cilantro Pistachio Pesto

I'm convinced I'm married to the smartest man in the world. See, the hubster has figured out that he needs to cook just one thing every year. Not two or three because that's heading toward routine and expected. No, just one. That way, it's always an exciting surprise. Back in 2006, he made Chicken Tikka Masala for dinner one night and he is still riding on the glory of that one meal. When a friend asks, "So which one of you is the cook?" the Hubster nonchalantly responds, "Oh, both of us cook. I make a great Chicken Tikka Masala."

Lately, the Hubster has saved his once-a-year foray into the kitchen to make a baked treat for my birthday. I hate to admit it but gosh, I love that annual baked treat. Last year, he made a batch of Ina Garten's Shortbread Cookies dipped in dark chocolate and I swear, coming home to those cookies was better than receiving jewelry or a fancy handbag and almost better than sleeping in. Almost. Let's not get carried away here.

Garlic Noodle Bowls and the Great Paint Conundrum

I didn't know Dadi, my paternal grandmother, at least not like I knew Mumma. My Dadi passed away long before I came around. She left behind my dad and my two uncles who aren't big talkers, much less storytellers, so all I know about Dadi is what I've gleaned from random tidbits my mom has shared over time. Under ordinary circumstances, the prospect of losing such a crucial part of my family's history would sadden me but the fact is, the few Dadi stories I have are so awesome, I know my family's history will be just fine.

Cue the story of Dadi and 516. That was the number of the house my dad grew up in. See, 516 housed all men (four burly ones, to be exact) except Dadi. No one really cared how the place looked, except Dadi. The 1960's orange floral furniture didn't match, the table creaked, and try as he might, the gardener simply couldn't revive the lawn. No one was interested in freshening up the place, except Dadi. Well one day, Dadi decided she'd had enough. She got some paint (yellow, mind you, because the women in my family are nothing if not trendy) and painted the living room. Except she was 5'1 (another trait we share) and well, she was only able to paint the bottom half of the wall. And of course, the men didn't care or even notice for that matter. And so, the half yellow walls remained. Forever, I imagine.

Relying on Banana Peanut Butter Cup Muffins

Last week was rough. On Monday, Little Man started daycare. This, after a year and half of being cared for by his grandparents. But while the grandparents could care for a baby cooing in a crib. their achy knees don't allow them to run after a shockingly fast toddler. Plus, Little Man needs to be around other little kids. Or so we tell ourselves.

And so, I dressed Little Man in a crisp white shirt (rookie mistake) and his navy blue Chuck Taylors with the Velcro straps. We took a picture before leaving. Me, trying to hold on to a baby who is clearly no longer a baby. And Little Man trying to escape my arms to continue running around the table. In the picture, Little Man looks mischievous. Mamma looks mussy and tired. In short, business as usual. And yet, the moment felt somehow more significant than the hundreds of Mamma and Little Man moments that make up each day.