It's just a question on the coffee mug (thanks, Mom!) I was drinking out of Sunday morning, but as my brain started to come to life (thanks, caffeine!), it really got the wheels turning.

We' saw some serious tragedy unfold this past week and, as humans, I think we're all sort of reeling from it, swept up in the raw emotion and, oftentimes, having real difficulty processing the plausibility of it all. 

This post isn't about black or white; it isn't about conservatism versus liberalism or how to rid the country of antiquated and perpetuated stereotypes that have been passed down from generation to generation. I obviously have an opinion on all of it (I mean, it's me -- let's not get crazy), but that's not what I'm aching to touch on. 

No, what I'm working furiously to wrap my head around is the humanness in all of this. In the responses of others and in the heart-wrenching cries for help and for change that resonate from tragedies like the shooting that happened this past week in Charleston, there's a common thread: the need for kindness, for compassion -- for love.

And I would love to say that as people who all smile and cry in the same language, we're adept and skillful in giving that away in spades, to whatever soul may be grasping at straws for genuine, unconditional love ... even simple kindness. Yes, I would love to say that. But if that were true, well, I more than likely wouldn't be writing this.


Don't worry, I'm getting to the "dog" part of all this. Bear with me.


In the midst of all this sadness, while questioning why, as humans who all desire love, acceptance and happiness, we still hurt one another -- even the ones we do, in fact, love -- I've found myself almost constantly reaching out for Jameson (My dog, not the whiskey. I know, it can get confusing).   

Just yesterday, when I left the house to do a few hours of work at my side job, I got to my car and realized I had Jameson's leash in my hand. Needless to say, I did not have Jameson -- he can't really deliver groceries with me. You know, health code violations and all. I took it as a sign from my subconscious; I want my dog around. All the time. Especially right now.

The unconditional love, the almost uncanny reception into my emotions; I can't get that from most human beings. Even the ones who desperately want to love you with all they have, the ones who truly and honestly want to support you when you're utterly destroyed or going through unimaginable loss ... oftentimes, as human beings with their own faults and their own inner turmoils happening, they just can't. 

And it's not just on those we ask for support. When massive tragedies happen in our lives or in the world, we ache for understanding. We ask for it. But when it's offered to us, we often resent those doing the extending; 'How could he possibly understand?' sort of thing. 

While we don't expect understanding from our dogs -- and maybe that's part of the beauty in the relationship -- they way they love us makes it feel like they do. And that's enough.

So, that brings me back to my original question: Who rescues who?

Someone dropped a six-week-old puppy on the side of the road in Texas. They left him for dead. He was brought into the campaign office, and I took him home. I never thought I'd have a dog at 25, living in an apartment far away from any support system, single. But, I was and I did.

Someone dropped Jameson on the side of the road last October, but everyday people do awful things to dogs. Unimaginable, unspeakable things. Everyday, some person whom we deem wonderful takes dogs, previously unloved and unwanted, home to houses and apartments and duplexes filled to the brim with love. And, yes, those people are wonderful. But who's rescuing who?

Secretly, I think all of us who rescue animals are searching for something. Whether we've been through something tragic or we hate our jobs or we've been deeply hurt or we're simply lonely, we kind of want to be saved. Just a little bit. It's okay to admit it. It doesn't make you weak or lesser-than. It makes you human. In some way, we all want to do the saving, too. So we save the dog.

In reality, though, it's so much more. In the midst of a world of cynicism and shootings and terrorism, we come home, everyday, to wagging tails and wet noses. In the split second you see that excited face waiting to greet you, the sadness and all the wear and tear of the world falls away. 

Sure, we give them homes. But they give us back our hearts.

According to my Facebook timeline, a lot of people were born today. Popular day for births. Luckily for me -- and for everyone whose meal choices are dictated by a sweet tooth -- my mom is among those. 

If you're like me, when you've got the blues you crave something sugary to set your day back on track. Yeah, yeah. I'm all about the health food band-wagon, and I'm usually on that train.  But sometimes we need a brownie. Or a cookie. Or a damned cupcake. To me, it makes complete sense that a woman who brings joy to every person she encounters would be so very good at the delicacy of creating sweet treats that do the same when you eat them,  immediately brightening your day. 

Unlike cooking, baking is a science. It's why most chefs dread the word "pastry." The best bakers, however, are still able to experiment; it's why most of us average folk can't replicate their genius. Well, my mom is a master of the art: tiers of bacon bourbon chocolate and almond roca cookies, blueberry and apple pies, even throwing in the ever-and-again curveball (she’s been known to take requests, and the gluten free apple cider doughnuts she made for me were pretty delectable). 

My mouth is watering already ... and we haven't even gotten to where she really shines: the ever-trendy cupcake. Anyone who’s tasted one of these babies knows the meaning of “mouthgasm.” (Amirite, Joyce?!) We live in a world where the cupcake has become commonplace and - dare I say it? - monotonous. A mountain of frosting, a so-so cake. Lots of people try and spice it up with wild, out-there ingredients to separate themselves from the pack. Completely not necessary.

Just like in most aspects of her life, my mom shows us the beauty of simplicity. We don't even have time to delve into the wonder of her gluten free cupcakes. I haven't found one professional bake shop that could hold a candle to her goods. For a future post, my friends; this one is meant to focus on the one area where nearly every cupcake maker fails: the frosting. 

Frostings pictured above, from left to right: cherry buttercream, cream cheese lemon curd, salted caramel buttercream.

Ingredients:
--> 1/2 cup pasture butter (room temperature, NOT melted ... VERY IMPORTANT)
--> 1/2 cup + 2 tablespoons raw honey (high quality honey recommended)
--> 2 teaspoons organic vanilla extract
--> Pinch of sea salt

[Insider Tip: Taste your honey before using. Every honey has a unique flavor and will bring something different to your frosting, so make sure it's what you want before you go all in!]

You'll also need:
--> Standing mixer & bowl or a good hand mixer
--> Spatula

Your instructions:

1. Fit the mixer (if standing mixer) with a flat beater & bowl. No standing mixer? No problem. Sub out a hand mixer. [Insider Tip: Mom says she 'whips until her arm is about to fall off'; it gives the frosting a fabulous texture. If you're feeling like a workout, screw the new-fangled mixer and go old-school].

2. Add your butter, honey, pinch of sea salt and vanilla to the mixing bowl and mix on a low speed until your butter begins to soften. Crank up your speed and whip frosting until creamed and light white in color (about a minute). Turn off your mixer, scrape your frosting with a spatula and voila!

3. Refrigerate for at least twenty-thirty minutes before piping onto your cupcakes.

Writer's Note: I promise I'll add a photo when I make cupcakes this week with this frosting in honor of such a fabulous day. Thanks for being born, Mama. 

[My first of a weekly series of dog-related posts. Funny (I'm so modest!), touching, honest. All dog-related and lots of Jameson anecdotes. Dog lovers everywhere, rejoice!]

I'll preface this post by saying I'm quite fortunate when it comes to the two-legged folks in my life. Stellar parents, badass sister, loyal, funny friends & a supportive, smart boss who makes me actually like getting to the office every morning. That being said, given the choice of going out with those human things and hanging with my dog? I'm always going to pick my dog.

If you're not a dog owner, you may not understand. Honestly? My friends can tell you (I'm looking at you, Alex) before I adopted Jameson, I didn't get it. I grew up with dogs, but letting them in the bathroom with you? Talking in a crazy dog voice? Losing your mind - and your wallet - at the littlest sign of an ailment? I thought you self-proclaimed "dog people" were certifiable. 

HA! How time changes things. Yep; Jameson licks my legs dry when I get out of the shower, our vet (a specialist, no less) knows my number by heart and my intern Camille thinks I have the funniest dog voice around. 

So, yeah, I'm a crazy dog mom. But my life has a new level of happy -- and humans take a back seat. Why? The list is long, but valid:

1. My dog is always happy to see me. It doesn't matter if I've been in an awful mood all day and no one could possibly want to be around me -- he does. Not only that, but he wants to make sure I know just how happy he is to see me. Full on body-shakes; he just can't contain his excitement. 
2. My dog doesn't nag (unless you count excessive licking). He doesn't question my whereabouts or why I haven't called or why I just don't want to go out tonight (actually, he's pretty stoked about that). As long as he got to go to the park today, he's completely okay with my Netflix binge in our apartment that I should probably be cleaning instead. 
3. Though I find myself wishing I could text my dog, I can't. Which means I'm never going to wake up to annoying messages from someone I don't want to talk to. It means I never have to remember to turn off my read receipts and my dog's never going to send passive aggressive -- or full on aggressive -- text messages to try and get a rise out of me. Sure, he may chew up my favorite shoes or steal my socks to get my attention, but that's a helluva lot less emotionally exhausting.
4. He doesn't talk back. I can create complete conversations between the two of us and I don't have to entertain another mindset. Just me and what I think he would say. Sure, he probably thinks I'm a nut job - but he can't tell me that. And he loves me just the same, because I keep his water bowl full and give him my leftover apple cores. Crazy be damned!
5. He takes up the whole bed, but it's okay. When another human's frame keeps you from sleeping comfortably, it's slightly annoying ... even if you love them. You're hot and sweaty and maybe you get sex out of the deal, but you certainly don't get a good night's sleep. But when your dog takes up most of the bed? It's pretty damn comforting. I mean, come on. Who doesn't love it when their dog finally discovers how to be big spoon?
6. He reminds me to appreciate the little things. People are always complaining about every. tiny. thing. So much traffic, my boss yelled at me, it's too cold, it's too hot, my nail polish chipped, I can't believe I have to wait in this check out line. We are bothered by any inconvenience. My dog, on the other hand, loves the little things. When it rains outside and there's extra birds feeding that he can chase? BEST DAY EVER! The perfectly sized stick appears on our evening walk? CHRISTMAS MORNING! Roommate's emptying the dishwasher? OMG, I GET TO LICK SPOONS! The ice machine drops an extra couple of cubes on the ground? STOP THE PRESSES, LIFE IS PERFECT! We sure could learn a few things from our pups...
7. I can let go of things. I've always been pretty good at not holding grudges and moving past things, but I'm human (yep, dogs trump me, too). Sometimes, something someone does gets under my skin and I just can't shake it. A couple weeks ago, Jameson chewed my favorite (new) bra. To shreds. I was so angry I was in tears, and I refused to come near him ... for ten whole minutes. Then he rubbed up against my legs, looked up at me with his perfectly sweet puppy eyes and I forgave him. Then I got on the floor next to him and played with him, which is all he wanted in the first place. That sweet, wonderful little badass. <3

I could list 100 more reasons why dogs trump humans, but you get the picture. So the next time you have to deal with a total jerk in the Starbucks line, your psycho co-worker, an irate parent of your perfect students (yep, you caught that sarcasm) or a vindictive, evil ex?

Go hang out with your dog. Don't have one? Well, what are you waiting for? Go adopt one. Best decision you'll ever make -- take my word for it.

I'm a self-proclaimed Daddy's girl, and I am lucky enough to have the Dad to trump all dads. Not only is he generous, loving and insane amounts of fun, he's pretty famous in my hometown for his throw-down, knock-out skills in the kitchen. 

Well, today's the day of his birth (which is a great day for all of you -- without it, you wouldn't be reading this!) and I feel it's only appropriate to share with all of you his signature dish.

The last time I posted a photo of Big Dave's Oysters Rockefeller, I was inundated with angry responses from my sister and her friends.
"WHAAAT?!" "NOOO FAIR!" "ALAINA'S HAVING HIM MAKE THEM AND WE'RE ALL COMING OVER. IMMEDIATELY."

Duh. Of course I had him make them when they weren't around. More for me. Let's be real.

While I've never made this dish myself, I've played sous chef to my pops. (Which, with him, means stand back and pretend to be helpful while he maneuvers magically around the kitchen).

It's a relatively painless recipe - unless you're shucking your own oysters, but with hard work comes glory - and one that will wow the ones you're feeding. So read. Eat. Be amazed.

Go buy:
--> 1 box Kosher salt
--> 2 dozen oysters in shell (they should eventually be shucked and sitting in the half shell, or you can buy a pint of pre-shucked oysters, but you will also need shells to put them in. My pops keeps shells on hand. If only I could find those in central Texas...)
--> 1/4 lb pancetta, diced
--> 9 oz baby spinach
--> 6 large garlic gloves
--> 8 oz Farmer's cheese, grated
--> 4 tablespoons olive oil

You will also need:
--> Large baking pan
--> Box grater
--> Cast iron skillet or medium saute pan
--> Chef's knife

Pre-heat your oven to 350 degrees. Line your large baking pan with the salt. It's to stabilize the oysters. Arrange the shucked oysters in half shells on your pan. Using a large box grater, grate your Farmers cheese. Pieces should be about the size of shredded carrots. Dice your pancetta and render in 1 tablespoon olive oil.Mince your garlic and set aside. Heat 3 tablespoons olive oil in your pan and add spinach. Once your spinach begins to wilt, add your garlic. Cook until soft. 

Prep work done! 

Now, layer the oysters with spinach, then cheese and top with your diced and rendered pancetta. Bake those suckers at 350 degrees until the cheese begins to brown -- 10 to 12 minutes.

[Note: You can substitute bacon for pancetta and Havarti for Farmers' cheese, but you're cheating yourself. Just saying.]

Serve and experience euphoria.

In the aftermath of your pleasure, thank your lucky stars that my dad was born.

I've been pondering my first blog post for about a week now, and today became the obvious choice for its debut. It's #nationalbestfriendsday AND margarita Monday; I have a best friendship that's almost sickening in its fabulosity and, together, the two of us have perfected a damned tasty margarita. So why not write about both? This one's for you, J.


We keep it simple and classic. If we've learned anything from a decade of being best friends it's that frills aren't what makes a friendship great, and you can carry that motto right on over into your boozin'. 

I may live in Texas, but I didn't have to move to the Lone Star state to know that sour mix is a crime. Joyce and I learned that early into our (legal) drinking years. No, really -- anyone who uses store-bought sour mix in their margaritas deserves the hangover they're going to be nursing tomorrow. Please, for the sake of tequila lovers everywhere: no more.

From our shakers to your rimmed glasses, Here's all you need to make a bad-ass classic marg (this recipe makes TWO margaritas):

--> 1 cup water
--> 1 cup sugar
--> 3 oz tequila (or, you know, 4)
--> 1.5 oz triple sec
--> 5 limes
--> 1/2 lemon
--> sugar + salt (for glass rimming)

For the perfect pairing to your Taco Tuesday night, here are your instructions:

The cup of water and the cup of sugar are to make simple syrup. If you don't already know how to make simple syrup, I'm guessing you're wine-or-beer folk -- at least when your drink is your responsibility to make. Let's change that. There's a reason it's prefaced with the word "simple." Even the laziest and the thirstiest have the energy and the time for it. Combine the water and sugar in a saucepan, bring to a boil and stir until the sugar has dissolved. Transfer into a glass bottle and you can refrigerate after using in this recipe.

In a shaker, combine ice, tequila, triple sec and a shot of your simple syrup. Squeeze (use a handheld juicer to get the most out of those babies) the juice out of 5 limes and half a large lemon. Save one half of one of your squeezed limes!  Shake that all up, now.

[Insider tip: If you want to be a bit more daring, you can switch out your triple sec for blood orange liqueur.]

Use the half of the lime you saved and run it over the rims of your glasses. On a plate, shake either loose sugar or salt. Coat the rim of your glass in it and pour your drinks.

Joyce likes a salted rim. I prefer a sugared one. She also tops hers off with a little extra simple syrup for balance. I like mine tart. Just like margaritas and tacos, we're the perfect pair.

Cheers to friendship and three cheers for tequila, ya'll!