Shhhhhh. The baby is sleeping. Finally. The husband had the audacity to leave our home office and get whisked away to the Big Apple on a business trip for three whole days taking my dutiful put-baby-down-for-nap  and wake-baby-up-from-nap partner, leaving me the bad guy.

This guy also took my daily dose of grown up as it’s just me and baby in the house…alone. Albeit, I am glad to take a break from our most frequent conversation topic:

Josh: Hey, his diaper needs to be changed.

…

Josh: Then I want him back.

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A few months ago, when I was just starting to realize my lack of appetite actually was a symptom of something rather big, I became unimpressed with food. Unless it could fit inside a bowl, have milk poured over it and be called cereal it would sit unloved on the counter. Yes, perhaps I should have scaled back the spaghetti as no human in this house can eat all 12 servings by themselves. In 4 days or less. But on the occasion I felt eating would be good idea, I made breakfast. There were a lot of eggs, and the begging of a certain self-proclaimed master to make me (and his future child) his perfect cheesy eggs; a lemon pull apart coffee cake that I became suddenly uninterested in once it was cooling on my counter but fell in love with three days later when it was almost gone; bagels, which I might not have had if I did not hide a few from the egg man; waffles that put me one step closer to the deserving title of mom as my kid will no longer be deprived of butter pools before or after hauling a back pack off to school; cinnamon buns in which I ate more than the husband (for once); and now these here muffins. Really, I have become a breakfast machine.

But something must be done when you decide to buy 20-pounds of blueberries because your friend knew someone and could get the deal of a lifetime (and include you and your little growing sweet pea in the mix). Err, I’m talking about me here. Yes, I have 20-pounds of blueberries and I’m not quite sure what I was thinking. Freezing! For future baby food, or a blueberry baked good when we are snowed in with a wee one and mama needs a buckle. Pies! Because my in-laws keep telling me about a blueberry pie dance ritual this husband of mine does, and I have yet to see it after three years of marriage. Snacking! Smoothies! Cereal Condiment! Jam! Yes, I can come up with grand plans, forgetting that I now need the occasional nap because by the end of the day I’m wiped.

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It has taken me three long tedious months to finally hunt down and make the most famous recipe of our tropical travels (a delicious city recipe coming soon too, I promise). Back in what feels like forever ago we were basking on the sandy shores of Maui sipping tropical drinks and sticking our toes into the bluest ocean I have ever seen and paused only to take a short day trip to Hana, where we saw incredible views like these. The somewhat treacherous road was populated with tiny fruit stands and big-ish shacks with large windows weary travelers could walk up to and find nourishment and rest from the overload of beauty — after all, one can only see so much salty ocean, mango skies, and green palm trees before one goes off the deep end wondering why the heck don’t we live here — and order things like banana bread, which this road is famous for. At the end of our journey, thinking we ate more banana bread than ever thought possible, we stopped again — I mean the sign made up stop, yeah — to try the only coconut bread found on the road to Hana.

Not being the biggest coconut fan, I let my husband do the devouring — and he did not disappoint — hearing mumbled praises for this coconut bread, Phyllis’s coconut bread. Oh, it’s so soft and moist, Ohmygah this is the best bread ever, Forget banana bread, this bread beats all were only a few of the many things coming from my husbands over stuffed mouth, which basically means, Meg, love of my life, please make me this coconut bread, I don’t think I can live without it. And so, I faithfully tracked down Phyllis, from across the other side of the world, and once we got past the whole “island time” stuff (us city folk don’t really know how to respond to this seemingly lackadaisical attitude) was finally sent the recipe to this most beloved bread. (See, I can be a good wife!)

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There are recipes you make because they are good, hearty and wholesome, and there are recipes you make because you have been dying for a good bowl of (insert favorite dish) and this, well this falls into both categories. June brought the first craving for a good helping of chili — the kind that begs you to give a hearty dollop of sour cream and a thorough sprinkling of cheddar cheese — but there was this whole heat wave thing happening and though I’d hate to admit weather plays a big part in my cooking, well I guess I’d just have to agree. A steamy hot bowl of chili on a sticky, hot June night was not really what I had in mind and so I waited. And waited. Until July came and another wave of the ohmygaaaaIneedsomechili came over me. But our air conditioner broke, and well, there is the part about weather dictating what is and is not made in this kitchen of mine.

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Being only days away from Thanksgiving I thought I would beat the system by pre-preparing foods and stocking them in the freezer. It’s true, I consider the kitchen to be my personal office — though I would like to talk to management about that window I’ve been desperately wanting — and as much as I love it, I usually dread the two days of cooking and baking from sun up to sun down ticking off my check list and making sure everything gets done according to the specific time schedule I laid out five weeks prior.

This year I swore it would be different. No more 1AM mornings baking a third pumpkin pie or 6AM alarms going off (on my first day off in eight months!) reminding me of potatoes that still need to be mashed, rolls needing to be baked and a turkey that must be basted every two hours, oh yes, and that apple pie to be made and green beans to be blanched in the spare time I scheduled. Sigh.

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