As is the case with so many people in Nashville, we had been sort of peripherally acquainted for a while. We had a lot of mutual friends, had been in the same room a few times, lurked around each other’s internet spaces – but I wouldn’t say that I really knew Tim Mallon.

So you can imagine my surprise back in 2010 when I had just finished running the Country Music Half-Marathon and looked up to see Tim – internet-acquainted but real-life-unfamiliar – making a beeline for me. Sweaty and disgusting is not the state in which you want to have your first real in-person interaction with anyone, man or woman, but Tim was unfazed: he gave me a hug and, after talking for a few minutes, we concluded that we should continue the conversation.

So a week later, I met Tim and his brother Nathan for coffee at Frothy Monkey. It was pouring rain that Saturday. The rain would continue for two days, and by Monday, Nashville would be under water – but we didn’t know that yet. We were just enjoying casual conversation, learning about each other’s families and each other’s work and why they had started drinking unpasteurized milk. Tim and Nathan are disarmingly genuine. I wish everyone could meet them.

Somewhere in the conversation, Tim mentioned Shanna. “We’re talking,” he said. And just as I always do when I hear about a crush, I got excited. “You’re talking?” I asked. “You’re talking to Shanna? Shannalee the blogger Shanna?”

He grinned. “Yeah! Shanna and I are talking.”

At the time, I was a new reader of Food Loves Writing – I don’t remember how I came across it, but once I found it, I was hooked. So much more than a foodie blog, Shanna weaves stories from her life into her experiences in the kitchen – her perspective is compelling, her heart absolutely beautiful. And the food that she makes – oh my word. The recipes send me into guilt spirals for standing in front of the fridge picking store-bought rotisserie chicken straight off the carcass and calling it “dinner.” Everything about her site is lovely and worthwhile. She’s one of my favorite voices on the internet.

And I couldn’t believe the coincidence: Tim Mallon, the Tim Mallon sitting right across from me, was talking to Shanna!

I’m going to spoil the ending: they kept talking. Shanna moved from Chicago to Nashville, and they got married. I met her in real life, too – a picnic lunch at Sevier Park, where we talked about struggles and faith and where this life might be leading each of us. She is every bit as wonderful in person as she is online.

And now, she has written a book – a book about that period in her life when she and Tim were talking, getting to know each other, falling in love. Written Together is a quick but gorgeous read, a story interspersed with recipes and details and hope. Last week, I put on my pajamas and crawled into bed, started reading and didn’t stop until I finished it. I loved it.

And I just wanted to tell you.

- – - – -

Written Together is available in both ebook and printed format. Shanna didn’t ask me to write about it – but if you want to support a couple who lives and loves in a way that is inspiring, I encourage you to get a copy or three.

My sister Becca is getting married next month (NEXT MONTH), so this weekend, my mom and sister Sarah came to town from Kansas City to help me throw her a bridal shower. The past three days were packed full of tasks and events and baking and set-up, and the house was packed full of friends and family, and my heart was packed full of the catch-22 that is this: I love people more than anything, and people exhaust me more than anything.

I’m afraid that this weekend, the exhaustion won.

After a weekend of non-stop action and interaction, I didn’t want to come home from work tonight and think about dinner. So before I left for work this morning, I pulled out the Crock-Pot, and threw in the makings for the easiest, most low-key, most delicious meal. I think I saw this on Pinterest at one point, although I have never had to go back and look at the recipe because it’s just that simple.

Throw the following into a slow cooker:
1 cup salsa
2 tbsp. fajita seasoning
2 tbsp. lime juice
3-4 chicken breasts, thawed and cut into 1” strips
3-4 bell peppers, cut into 1” strips
1 small onion, diced

Turn it on low for 7-8 hours. Do not worry about dinner all day long. Come home from work and find your house smelling like Mexican food heaven. Spoon the mixture into a bowl and sprinkle with some cheese. Eat. Let the dog lick the bowl when you’re finished.

There. No me gusta STRESS.

Have any favorite slow cooker recipes to share? I’m all about the Crock-Pot these days.

I’ve known Roommate Hannah since childhood. In fact, here’s a picture of her and me from the days of yore.

That’s us at ages 10 and 15. This was around the time that Hannah thought that “Les Miserables” was, in fact, “Lame is Rob” – which is basically the best thing I have ever heard.

Anyway, Hannah is good at all sorts of things that I’m not good at – like sports and computers and wearing Nike shoes. She also knows how to cut up a pineapple – and yesterday, I made her teach me how.

Step 1: Cut off the top. Those leaves are spiky. Don’t bleed all over the fruit.

Step 2: Cut off the bottom. Now it should be shaped like a barrel. If it’s not shaped like a barrel, then you didn’t cut off the top and the bottom correctly and you probably don’t deserve to hold a knife.

Step 3: Cut the barrel in half, length-wise. Top to bottom. Longitudely, not latitudely.

Step 4: Cut the two halves in half again. Count up all of your halves – you should have four. Yes, four halves make a whole and never let anyone tell you otherwise.

Step 5: It’s time to cut off the core. The only reason you would want to save the core is if you wanted to make a smoothie or if you are a giraffe. Otherwise, you are not allowed to keep it.

Step 6: Cut the four halves in half again. Now you will have eight, and fine, I’ll stop calling them “halves.”

I will call them “boats” instead.

Step 7: Take each boat and slice the flesh (HELLO, CLARICE) into… you know, slices. But don’t cut all the way through the rind, because look at Step 8.

Step 8: Cut off the rind.

Voila – now you have perfect little pineapple pieces – and, in my case, 15 years on the Annie that was pictured earlier in this post.  How has half a lifetime gone so quickly?

Maybe the better question is, how have almost 30 years passed without me ever having to cut up a pineapple?

Some exciting news at work: new co-workers, new snacks.

Why is this cracking me up so much?

I’m flying to Kansas City tomorrow to 1) help my mom move into her new house, and 2) see him, him, and him.

I wish this was the appropriate place to talk about dating.  I might have to start a secret blog.

So many of my favorite clothes are wearing out – the staples.  The jeans.  The black pants.  The basic shirts.  I’m Raggedy Annie these days, threadbare and frayed.

I’ve decided to not be vegan (surprise, surprise).  It was a good experiment for a bit, but I think that the biggest take-away is just to eat more real food – which means cooking more – which is actually going to be great.

Tom Petty is coming to Denver?  WHO IS COMING WITH ME????!?

If this is true, let the record state that I predicted this long ago.  So cliché.

Contrary to popular belief, the world has not opened up and swallowed me whole.  Despite my silence in this space, I’ve been out and about, alive and kicking, moving and shaking, grabbing life by the horns (or whatever).

I’m not so delusional to think that my absence from the internet has ruined anyone’s life.  But my mom said that she misses my blog.  So I’m saying hello.

A few weeks ago, I completely paid off my credit card – and promptly cut it up into little pieces.  For me, a credit card has been a crutch to help me live beyond my means, and I just grew tired of having my money already spoken for whenever I would get a paycheck.  I can’t tell you how freeing it was when I got paid the other day to be able to choose where to put my money – which, for now, means throwing cash at paying off my car.  I’m not completely out of debt yet, but after years of feeling like I just couldn’t make any progress, in the last few months I’ve started to see a light at the end of the tunnel.

Now, of course, not having a credit card has some downfalls.  I can’t purchase anything that I don’t have the money for RIGHT NOW.  This means that I’ve had to say no to several travel opportunities, which is tough for me.  For the past two years, I’ve rarely stayed in the same place for more than 10 days at a time, and spent a lot of money flying to see the people who are important to me.  But for now, those days are over – and the only tickets I can buy are more of a “sacrifice” than a “given.”

But as you may recall, commitment means freedom, and in the past few months of generally staying put, I have been growing some friendships here in Denver.  I’ve been social – maybe even too social (for this introvert) – and am learning a new work/life balance.

When walking outside to my car this morning, it was 55 degrees and smelled like spring.  Supposedly, March is Denver’s snowiest month, so we’re not out of the woods yet, but… I can’t tell you how hopeful that scent of dry dirt was.

Dry dirt = hope.  Someday I will write poetry.

I’ve embraced a “sort of vegan” diet as an experiment for a month.  So far, I feel like hell and would wring a cow’s neck for a slice of cheese.  Initially, I gave up meat, dairy, and eggs, but have reclaimed eggs with a vengeance, so I am definitely not living a full-on vegan lifestyle.  I feel very scatterbrained and willy-nilly about this whole thing, and while I recognize that our food system is scarily screwed up, I think that there are a lot of ways to “vote with your dollar” and make better nutritional choices.  I’m not sure that I’ll stick with the whole “no meat, no dairy” thing – but I’m giving it a few more weeks to see how I feel.

I’m late to the party on this, but Whitney Houston died.  What a tragic, senseless ending to a life of a woman who, at one point, had everything stacked in her favor.  Didn’t we almost have it all, Whitney?  Ugh.  It’s just so cliché, and so sad.  I ran across this isolated track of her vocals on “How Will I Know.”  She was incredible.

If you’re wondering about how Toad is doing, you should know that she fearlessly and ferociously chased a raccoon off our front yard the other night. She is a champion.

For those of you who I’ve been out of touch with, I’m sorry. I probably owe 80% of my friends some kind of personal communication. Life is different these days, and I’m just trying to find my stride. In the meantime, know that I’m thinking of you (even if I’m not buying a plane ticket to see you), and wishing that everyone that I loved could live in the same place.

Next week, my mom is moving to Kansas City.  While this is definitely a good decision for her, selfishly, it’s hard on my heart.  I moved to Colorado to be closer to my parents, and starting next week, neither of them will live here anymore.  This brings up all sorts of questions and emotions for me, but I’ve learned enough to know that none of these need to be discussed in a public forum.

Sorry, voyeurs.

Instead, let’s talk about the things that I have inherited from her house in the move.

The most important thing is Kodi the 3-legged dog.  Yes, our little raisin-eyed tripod, the Toad, now lives with Becca and Greebs and me on Hooker Street.  My days of zero responsibility are now a thing of the past, as Becca and I are constantly shuffling dog duties (not to be confused with dog doodies – although, yes, sad to say that those are being shuffled, too).

She is adorable as always, though – and even though I’m now much more tethered to home, and even though she doesn’t really fit into my active lifestyle (she can walk about a quarter of a mile before she’s spent), it’s nice to have someone who’s always happy to see me.

We’ve also laid claim to some killer patio furniture.  Last week, I told my friend Kelli that it was made of cast iron.  “You mean wrought iron,” she stated more than asked.  I was like, “Yeah.”

Now, we don’t exactly live on a picturesque block.  We have a dirty weed yard, and some local dogs peed on my basil and mint plants until they were dead.  The next-door neighbor’s mutt killed a skunk in their front yard, and the carcass rotted in the hot sun for two weeks.  I’m not sure if mere patio furniture is going to, I don’t know, redeem the neighborhood – but it’s sure as hell going to try.

Come over.  I’ll mix you a ghetto cocktail.

Finally, all of the things that have hidden in Mom’s pantry?  For years?  And years?  Mine.

If you know me at all, you know that I cannot waste food.  I just can’t do it.  If food dies, I die.  It’s this deep, fundamental part of my soul.  You think I’m kidding – but I assure you, I kid thee not.  I’m the girl who packs a food box in her suitcase on long trips, just sick at the thought of leaving food behind to rot in the fridge – a waste of my money, a waste of someone’s labor, a waste of, I don’t know, a cow.

I will avenge your death, cow.

Anyway, I now have more canned goods, spices, and non-perishables than I know what to do with.  Apple butter?  Kidney beans?  Chicken stock?  Red chile marmalade?  Canned meat?  Jars of chutney?  Two gigantic canisters of Pam?  If you have ideas for how I can put this stuff to good use, do tell.

Last month, I attended TedxMileHigh, which was monumentally perspective shifting.  If you ever have a chance to go to a TED conference, go go go.

One of the speakers was Libby Birky, co-founder of the SAME Café, Denver’s first pay-what-you-can restaurant.  Ever since hearing about it, I’d been wanting to check it out – so yesterday, my co-worker Gina and I dropped in for lunch.

Driven by the desire to see everyone treated with dignity, regardless of their ability to pay, the SAME Café encourages patrons to leave a donation that seems fair to them, or to exchange an hour of work for their meal.  Their menu changes daily, based on whatever organic ingredients are in season.  The food is fresh and made from scratch, and the customers range from professionals to the homeless.  Everyone eats together in the same room.  It’s a beautiful concept, and the food was delicious (homemade pizza crust?  YES).

If you live in Denver, consider supporting the SAME Café.  It’s on the north side of Colfax (or “the Fax,” as I like to call it) between Race and Vine.  You’ll eat well, and you just might have a conversation about broccoli salad with a man whose life looks very, very different from your own.

The LÄRABAR weekend has come and gone – and all I can say is that I want to go back to the land of palm trees and free samples.

It was amazing.  Basically the greatest ever.

Want to hear one of the (many) LÄRABAR songs we sang (many times)?  Here you go.

We spent the morning in the sunshine, right by the entrance to the convention center, welcoming 56,000 attendees with songs about LÄRABAR.  In the afternoon, we moved inside to the brand booth (one of 3,000), and in between sets, would run around like (free range) chickens with our (happy, healthy) heads cut off, eating as many natural food samples as we could.  Some were amazing, some just needed some gluten or meat or something.

Here were a few of my favorite finds:
Alexia: Spicy Sweet Potato Fries
Svelte: Cappuccino protein drink
Redwood Hill Farm: Smoked Goat Milk Cheddar Cheese

And of course, when it comes to LÄRABAR, I am a humongous fan of:
Blueberry Muffin
Cashew Cookie
Cherry Pie

The highlight of the weekend was singing LÄRABAR songs to Lara herself.  The other highlight was meeting David, the inventor of Cocoa Môlé (I am his biggest fan).  The other highlight was being within arm’s reach of Fabio. The other highlight was when Matt, suddenly possessed with the theme of “natural foods,” accidentally said that our return flight was routed through “Las Vegan.”

The LÄRABAR team was a dream to work with, and I’m so thankful to have had the opportunity (and the new friends).  This will go down as one of those big surprise gifts in my life – something I never could have planned, but am so glad that it happened.

A few times, I’ve mentioned the fact that I’ve been working on a secret project.

And each time, I’ve thought, “I’ll tell everyone what I’m doing soon” – but it just hasn’t happened.  I’ve written about things like Zumba and ants and Tom Hanks as Animals instead – because I just couldn’t help it (and really, who could blame me?)

So months have gone by, working on this secret project, and now it’s happening TOMORROW, and I still haven’t even told you what it is.

Well.  Okay then.  It’s time.

Remember when I wrote a little song about LÄRABAR?  And they rewarded me by sending me bajillions of Cocoa Môlé?  Well.

It turns out that LÄRABAR is based in Denver.

And it turns out that they’re really, really nice people – and they like ME, too.

So they asked me if I could come up with some more songs about the brand, to which I replied, “Holy môlé” – and then a resounding yes.

Some fast and furious writing has taken place, and tomorrow, I’m flying to Southern California to perform these LÄRABAR songs at Natural Products Expo West.  Need proof?  Here’s the poster:

I know.  I KNOW.  It’s so fun.

Oh, and you might be wondering who this “Matt Whitman” is.  Well, in addition to being my co-writer for these songs (and they truly would not have gotten written without him), he’s a Louisiana redneck who shoots squirrels and cooks them in gumbo.  He’s also a farmer who knows how to grow vegetables.

All I’m saying is that when the world ends, I want him on my team – because when the LÄRABARs run out, this guy will keep people alive.

More to come…

Just when you were starting to forget it, I’m bringing up the song again.

In response to my video, Lärabar sent me the most wonderful package containing, among other goodies, 4 boxes of Cocoa Môlé.  That’s 64 bars – I’LL NEVER GO MÔLÉ-LESS AGAIN!

I love Lärabar.