When my husband and I got married, he was a composer and doctoral candidate in music, and I was a full-time writer. I assumed our married life would be set to the steady, reassuring cadence of the academic calendar, with our closet full of corduroy and our Saturday mornings spent, well, probably at couples yoga. Instead, less than two years later, we were – POOF! – suddenly working as professional cooks, side-by-side, 17 hours a day, in the kitchen of our very own restaurant. Delancey is that story of how that came to pass, how two fairly clueless people – one an exceedingly resourceful dreamer (hint: not me) and one a total stick in the mud (ahem) – opened a restaurant on a harrowingly tiny budget and with lots of help from friends and strangers, much elbow grease, countless mistakes that seem funny now but weren’t at all funny then, and a truckload of Cool Ranch Doritos.
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A Homemade Life
When I started to write the book that became A Homemade Life, I thought I was writing a cookbook – and it does have fifty recipes. But more than that, it’s a story about growing up in a family of avid home cooks in the suburbs of Oklahoma, my father’s abrupt death to cancer when I was in my early twenties, and the journey – for lack of a less cheesy word – that his loss would set me on toward figuring out what to do with my life.