Honey-Almond Waffles with Lavender Whipped Cream 

Honey-Almond Waffles

 4 cups all purpose flour
4 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons baking powder
1 ½ teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon baking soda
3 ¼ cup milk (2% but really, this recipe doesn’t discriminate)
 2/3 cup vegetable oil
 4 large eggs
1 tablespoon almond extract
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
 2 teaspoons honey

 Place ingredients into a large mixing bowl and combine until smooth.

 Let batter sit for 5-8 minutes while pre-heating waffle maker. Pour ½ cups of waffle batter into waffle maker, using a rubber spatula to spread the batter evenly. Wait about 5 seconds until you see the batter bubble a bit, and then close waffle maker until maker indicates that the waffles are ready.

Lavender Whipped Cream

 2 cups heavy cream
 ½ teaspoon lavender extract
½ cup powdered sugar
A few lavender petals to garnish.

 In a stand mixer, whip the 2 cups of cold heavy whipping cream while adding ½ teaspoon lavender extract and ½ cup of powdered sugar slowly. Whip until peaks form.

Let Me Make You Food So You Know It's Real. 

It has taken me forever to start getting into classes for my Media Studies major. Thanks to a lack of good judgment during spring quarter (freshman year), I have since been bumped down to a later registration time because I decided to drop “History of Popular Music,” because it seemed like a waste of my time. Glad I dropped the class, but mad that I’ve been punished since because of this decision. Ironically, this elective has spurred a series of me having to wisely choose my electives because, well, I couldn’t really get into any classes for Media Studies. Most of these classes have been Comm classes, because Comm classes are a guaranteed good time. They’re, like, the bike bar of college classes.

 On my first day of Communication and Personal Relationships, we were told that we had to get a book called The 5 Love Languages. I looked the book up on Amazon and immediately gagged a little bit at the happy couple (man wearing polo shirt and kakis and woman wearing capris—ugh) laughing on the cover while strolling along the beach. I was  like, “there will definitely be an online summary for this, we’ll be fine,” but I bought the book for good measure. Little did I know that this class would be one of my favorite classes I’ve ever taken, or that this book (with slightly faulty theory that is backed by the words of a Christian marriage counselor who uses hyper-extremes to validate his advice) would lead me into some sort of deep, consuming reflection about my relationships.

There are five love languages. These are: words of affirmation, acts of service, quality time, physical touch, and receiving gifts. After reading the book (yes, I actually read this one) I could tell right away what my love language was. If you read it, you’d be able to do the same. But, you know, just in case, there’s a quiz you can take online to confirm (OooooOOOoooh).

 My love language is acts of service with a heavy splash of words of affirmation and a dollop of receiving . I pride myself on being an independent hard-ass, who people respectfully fear because I get shit done. It is very rare when I ask for help, because I’d like most people to think that think I can handle anything. It’s weird. I torture myself. It’s like I don’t want people to do nice things for me because I want them to think I can do everything myself, but at the same time, I crave the attention that comes with someone thinking about me and then proceeding to bring me a coffee during finals week, or do the rest of my dishes when they use one of my coffee mugs, or offer to take notes for me when I can’t make it to class because I have bronchitis for the 10th time in college.

 Sometimes people speak multiple love languages. The way that they prefer people to show their love could differ from the way that they choose to give their love. I am not one of those people. I will always get you that coffee, I will always wash your dishes, and I will always re-fill your Brita if I’m the last one to drink from it. Above all, cooking has become the ultimate act of service and one of my favorite way to show my love.

Get Me a Mimosa. STAT. 

 I met my best friend Lauren in 2008. I was 14 and a total smartass, and I knew her because she was the freshman who’d walk through the middle school hallways to the non-honors geometry class with bad front bangs, Nicole Richie sunglasses, and a backpack bigger than her. Our dads happened to be friends and shared a mutual love of cigars, paisley shirts, and home theaters.

 On fight night I walked into her house with my mom, dad, and sister to be greeted by a pile of chicken wings and a living room that served as a shrine to her existence. Quite literally, the walls were covered with professional head shots of front-banger with a scoop neck pink tee from Abercrombie, smizing in a forest of palm trees.

Front-banger, sans scoop neck.

Who knew that we would develop an unconditional, beautiful, weird best-friendship. I love Lauren.

 I do love her. Which is why even though I met her high school boyfriend and immediately hated him, I offered to make brunch so that we could all hang out. I know that this sounds weird—a 16-year-old making brunch for her four mutual girlfriends to meet her best friend’s boyfriend. But, like, Lauren was a senior and I was a sophomore. This felt mature, and right, and I wanted to feel like the Barefoot Contessa for a morning.









Remember in high school when you had a group of friends, and then two people decided not to like each other, making entire friend group miserable? This brunch took place during one of those dark times.

This was a the spread at brunch. I would show you pictures of our faces, but none of us were smiling. **Note the sparking apple cider to keep the event classy. 

One passive aggressive argument over a syrup v. jam debate, a broken microwave, and a food coma led me to the conclusion that Alli and Caroline should no longer be in the same room together, and the boyfriend was the worst. Lauren thought his fear of homeless people, dislike of any vegetable and lack of manners was endearing. I didn't. To confirm my beliefs that this guy was a total weenie, he hid behind a column in my house when my dad walked in the door. It was strange. He is strange. Really, Lauren, really? And then they dated for a year and a half. On Valentine’s Day of her freshman year of college, Lauren dumped him.

Look how far we've come:

The best part about that brunch were the waffles. If I could re-do that brunch, I would add almond and vanilla extract, and make myself a very strong mimosa. Now that we're old, Lauren and I share a mutual love of interesting textural and flavor elements. We also elect to drink cocktails in awkward situations to soothe our pain. This isn't my favorite foodie-memory, but I would do it again. Biting the bullet meant letting Lauren know that I was her ride or die. Till this day, I still am.