nomicidal tendencies


Oh, hallowed hollowed produce. Your vacant insides yearn to be filled with a dynasty of flavor at the hand of my spatula. My sauté pan, casting a brazen glare in my direction, challengs me to create a filling that will become a salavatious amalgamation to inspire the mouths of generations to come.

Thus, the red pepper came to know my first homemade pesto. In a biblical sense. 

Living next to and unfortunately consequently frequenting the world’s worst Farm Fresh (Church Hill in the house! Woop woop!) should have prepared me for what transgressed during my quest for the evening’s ingredients:  

  1. My phone getting stolen, and 
  2. A complete lack of fresh produce, met by
  3. The remaining vegetables, which looked like it had fallen off of the truck, been scraped off the road, and crammed into the shelves by an angst-ridden teenager.

But, a girl’s gotta eat, and THIS girl thrives when faced with adversity and wilted spinach. Wayward son, on we carry!

The stuffing, made with a couscous base, could be altered to include anything and everything your savory heart desires. I happened to use pesto, tomatoes, Kalamata olives, and all the garlic currently in my house. 
The end result was stuffed into a red pepper, baked until soft, and paired with  cheap economically savvy grape-based enough red wine to make me forget about my missing phone and sad produce selections. 

Enjoy, and here’s to a better tomorrow. 


There are few things which make a cold, wet, and miserably dreary day tolerable:

Snuggling (duh), Netflix (and snuggling), and making homemade soup.

Finding myself alone and without internet this past New Year’s Eve limited my options to snuggling with Mr. Kitty or making soup.

Oh, God. Saying this out loud vindicates my theory of being a closeted widowed cat-lady. 


Full disclosure, I also utilized my stew time to try and complete the entire Lord of the Rings extended edition in one sitting.  

Good vegetarian gravy. What has become of me? 

Well, judge me not by the content of my goings on, but by the ingredients of my soup. For it was a proverbial mouth explosion of flavor.

 Vegetarian French Onion Soup

  • 6-8 white onions (but really, you can never have enough)
  • A smidge of sugar
  • A smidge of salt
  • 3 tbsp margarine
  • 4 cups of water
  • 4 cups veggie broth
  • 1 tbsp (or so) flour for thickening purposes
  • A sprig of thyme (I used 2 because I can never have enough thyme. Nyuck nyuck nyuck)
  • 1 bottle of wine, divided (¼ cup for cooking, the remainder for drinking, duh)
  • Old/dried up bread
  • Fancy cheese (I prefer Muenster)

Pull out your biggest pot, medium heat it up, and let your butter melt all over the bottom.  Slice up the gagillion pounds of onions into slim but generous lengths.  Add your onions and toss in the salt and sugar. Put a cover on those babies and cook for 10 minutes.

Here’s where Lord of the Rings comes into play: Caramelizing onions is a tedious and lengthy process, requiring the frequent stir to avoid burning.  So sit back, but not too far, pop in a VHS, and for the next 90 minutes, monitor your pot and stir every so often.

When the onions start to brown, add a spoonful of water every 5 minutes you get up t stir, and mind the crusty goodness that will cultivate the bottom of your pot. Continue this ritual for the next 30 minutes. 

When the onions get as brown as my epidermis during the summer (which is very), stir in your flour.  Add water, veggie broth, and thyme, and bring to a boil.

Reduce heat and simmer for 20 minutes.  Add the ¼ cup of white wine you haven’t already downed, and let it stew for another 10 minutes.  

In these 10 minutes, set your oven to broil and chop up your dusty old bread into bite-sized cubes.

I put my soup into pretty little oven-friendly ramekins because I’m adorable.  Add crusty cubes. Cover the tops with cheese. Place your savory cups of glory on a baking sheet and broil for about 10 minutes, until the cheese is as golden as Bea Arthur.

Remove, ingest, and lose your mind over what just happened in your kitchen.