My 39, Day 10. 

It took three houses, but I finally got a kitchen where my head doesn’t hit the range hood when I chop veggies and the counter space can hold more than a muffin tin.

I have a space where I can breathe – and one where I want to cook.

Going well beyond what my dad calls “utility meals,” the family weeknight staples of spaghetti, chili, and other oh that again sounding dishes, I’m now trying out all kinds of new recipes.

They are freshly prepared, largely unprocessed, and if I may compliment my inner culinarian, good to the last forkful eats.

Not that the eight and under set in my house agree.

In the same week one turned their nose up at scratch brownies in favor of a certain red boxed kind, the other took a microscopic bite of homemade mac, swallowed it like it was poison and asked for Kraft.

The brownie recipe was courtesy of my friend MB, whose baked goods I’d put up against anything blue ribbon anywhere. She’s also one of the most physically fit friends I know, though I’m pretty sure she exercises because she actually likes it.

Me? I’m huffing my way through Body Pump, spin class and a Turkey Trot run this week so I can indulge in whatever the heck I want from the Thanksgiving table, guilt free.

We’ll see how the picky ones react.

They’re talking up a big game of eating all these holiday foodstuffs, but I’ll believe it when I see it.

Holding steadfast to my homemade mantra, the only cranberries they’ll find on our table will be in a freshly made sauce, courtesy of one of my favorite Williams-Sonoma recipes of all time.

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It’s inexpensive, easy, and makes my kitchen smell like an orange grove. Best of all, it’s otherworldly delicious, in a way the jiggly canned stuff could never dream of being.

Homemade heaven.