Pesto: Make it or Buy it? The answer will surprise you

Pesto Post Close up DONE

Anyone ever had the Chicken Pesto Panini at Atlanta Bread Company? If you have, you know why I absolutely HAD to try to make it myself. It is super expensive, at over $8 for just the sandwich! So here is what I did. I got the basic ingredients for simple pesto, although I omitted the pine nuts because I think they suck. As I was gathering the necessary items, I happened to notice that the brand Knorr makes a pesto sauce mix.

pesto by knorr package

Which at first I found to be a little weird and off-putting since it had you cook it on the stove, and fresh pesto is just basically blended together and used. So- here is how I made the Fresh Basil Pesto:

  • 1/3 cup Parmesan (or other firm cheese)
  • 1 Bunch Basil
  • 1/2 cup Olive Oil (start with 1/4 cup and add more to your liking)
  • 2 cloves fresh Garlic
  • 2 tsp Lemon Juice
  • Salt & Pepper to taste

Pull all the leaves off your basil and roughly chop your garlic. Put basil, garlic, and cheese in food processor and pulse. Scrape down the sides and add a generous pinch of salt and lemon juice. Keep adding and pulsing until you like the way it tastes.

It was DELICIOUS. Fresh and bright.

So then after this, I just followed the package directions for the Knorr pesto mix which was just adding olive oil, water, boiling, and then simmering.

It too, was DELICIOUS. I was looking for an exact replica of the Atlanta Bread Company pesto…and I found it! For shits and giggles, I decided to just mix them both together and add another dash of lemon juice, (I love love love lemon!). IT. WAS. THE. BEST. DAMN. PESTO. EVER. OH. MY. GOD. I made myself the most epic sandwich ever – with my crockpot shredded chicken, medium cheddar cheese off the block, pesto, mayo, all put into a hot iron skillet with a little butter. Amazeballs. Simply amazeballs.

In conclusion – which one is better? They’re both really really good. When mixed together – it is definitely the best basil pesto I have ever had in my LIFE. And on a side note – some recipes say you can freeze it in ice cube trays and pull it out as needed – I tried this, and failed miserably. Maybe if you made it without the oil, froze it, and added oil when you thawed it out, that could work. But with the oil in it, it wouldn’t come out of the mold and I had to let it melt out onto a plate and put it in the fridge.

Confessions of A Failed Multitasker

Blood and Lettuce DONE

Have you ever felt like a jellyfish? Moving through the ocean of life – where for every two steps you take forward, you take one step backwards? Where you seemingly brown-nosing the anus of life? And then BAM, with one fell swoop, you unravel your entire string of small victories and end up damn near where you started. Let me tell ya’ll about my shit-storm of a day the other day and how the above (real) picture came to fruitition.

It was a cold January day in Georgia, and I, a second-time Mom on the ass end of maternity leave from my super hectic job, was multi-tasking many kitchen duties. Now, I have always been a bit of a procrastinator, I have realized that for some reason, I do my best work after 6pm. My husband had asked me to put the chicken we purchased the previous day in the crockpot (more on fantastic crockpot shredded chicken at another time). So I decided to make myself dinner, make crockpot chicken, cut up a head of lettuce, jam the fuck out, and carry on four conversations via text message at the same time.

As i sharpened my mid-grade walmart knife from the set, I thought to myself, “damn man…this is a sharp knife.” I chopped half of a nice, ripe white onion for my chicken and dumped it in the crockpot along with the chicken breasts and garlic and thought to myself, “hey…I should chop up that lettuce while i’m here chopping things.” And here is where my real journey for the night begins.

I smash the head of lettuce as instructed by my mother-in law and sister-in-law/best friend and pull the root part off. I chop, chop, and chop, with seemingly expert motions when the phone vibrates. My brain simultaneously tries to make another chop and reach for the phone at the same time. In one clean sweep, I successfully cut the vein leading between your pointer finger and middle finger IN HALF. IN HALF ,guys. The dark red liquid immediately spurts like that of a hose with no nozzle. I stare at it while it sprays with the beat of my heart all over the crisp light green lettuce and contaminates everything in sight with an unsettling amount of dark red discontent. With every spurt it screams “YOU HAVE MADE A HUGE MISTAKE” like I was starring in my own episode of arrested development.


In my process of deciding whether to freak out or not, I consider that my husband has the car, and decide whether it is worth it or not to call my mom, who lives next door. While I felt the decision process was made easier flailing around the kitchen like an idiot on fire and pouring blood everywhere is the best course of action until I feel faint and decide to call my mother. I never determined whether I felt faint because I lost a bit of blood, or if it was because of the crippling embarrassment I had unwittingly signed myself up for.

“Okay Mom. I need you to listen to me and NOT FREAK out, just do NOT FREAK OUT,” I say in the most convincing voice I could, “I have cut myself pretty badly, and I need you to come over and help me as soon as you possibly can.”

As I was flailing a little more and waiting for her I thought to myself, “so this ends a perfect fuckin’ evening, and a fantastically weird maternity leave.” By the time she arrives and gets my hand wrapped in a towel, there is so much blood it takes her about thirty minutes to mop it up, and I continue to freak out, hyperventilate, and cry like a little fuckin’ baby.  I got three stitches at the local hospital, where despite the hoards of people spreading their public school plagues and putting their staff infections on everything they touch, they were super nice and hella fast. Fayette Piedmont had a separate section the took me off to, where the nurses and other staff got the benefit of my nervous humor, because when I hurt or get super nervous or uncomfortable, I don’t shut the fuck up and tend to tell a bunch of jokes that may or may not offend and embarrass my mother. They got me stitched up and on my way out in 50 minutes – now thats a record we should be talking about! Maybe we should also talk about how we pay $600 a month for health insurance and I still had to pay a $300 deductible, and by pay, I mean it was added to my growing bar tab of dumb-shit hospital visits. Perhaps I will cut off a limb they can keep in exchange for payment…hmmm…something to ponder on as I fall asleep tonight.

So guys, do I get an A for effort or not?

Have you ever failed this hard? If so, I would love to hear about it!

My Pet Sloth

I have come to the determination that having a baby is what I imagine having a pet sloth is like. They’re slow, they’re cute, can’t run away from your love, and are disproportionately sized.

sloth tongue

I had this thought when I had a drink or two and went into deep-space thought. It happens.

sloth fat and cute

ohhhhhhhhh the cuteness!!!


Look What I Made!

  Look y’all I made a thing! Her name is Lily Avelyn Froehlich 🙂 our five year old came home from school a few months ago and declared the baby’s name would be Lily- and we held out on the name until she was out and about. We don’t know who the Lily she got the name from was… I just hope it’s someone good and not some mean little shit. 
My husband got to be in the room, as he was with the first cesarean, and said he didn’t get bitched at for looking over the curtain like he did the first time. He also mentioned that they took an entire something out of me and sat it to the side while they burned and tied my remaining tube. Then they put it back in. He has literally seen more of me than I have! And still loves me- even if my uterus is big a floppy with a few holes in it now. 🐣 

Anyone else had a cesarean or repeat cesarean? Tell me all your got details!

Flying Blind: The Struggle of Shaving When You Can’t See Your Own Vah-Jay-Jay

My husband shaves. He has always kept way less body hair than me. Perhaps I should be embarrassed..or perhaps you should go fuck yourself if you think I should be embarrassed. That is SO beside my point here, sorry. So, I am 30 weeks…second (and last) child. I decided for whatever reason to deal with the shrubbery I have been growing for a good bit. Maybe it was raging hormones, maybe it was a last goodbye to my vah-jay-jay, “goodbye, my friend. I will see you again next year”, (right…?). Given my genetic luck, I am 5’9” and haven’t gained much weight, haven’t had to buy maternity clothes, but did have a super-stubborn cervix that only dilates to a HALF a fucking centimeter when prompted at 42 fuckin’ weeks, (on a relevant note on genetics, I am adopted so I am like a secret Santa gift here) . But I have finally reached the point where reaching my feet is becoming difficult and I wonder at least once a day how my pubic bone can hurt this bad and not be irreparably damaged. So shaving has been…well…let us just say it has been less of a priority than usual.

So I put conditioner in my hair so it can sit and make it pretty or whatever it does, and I shave my right leg. Not bad…except that I use cheap conditioner to shave with since regular shaving cream seems to make me all bumpy and red and gross. So on the I-might-fall-and-the-paramedics-will-find-me-naked-(again) scale we are at threat level orange, aka “oh shit” level. So I slather on some more conditioner on to my downstairs mix-up, and proceed with my 7-section de-fuzzing process. I make it relatively easily through steps 1, 2, and started slowing down at 3, but I made it through okay. Now keep in mind, friends, this is a 4 blade razor with the little swively head and contouring whatever and what-nots. and if you cut yourself, thats four blades worth of bleeding and burning! No joke. I am now deep into “why the fuck did I start this” territory…where if i stop, the boosh will be forever uneven. Or my husband will make the suggestion of using the electric razor again…that was some tragic shit. It was all smooth buzzzzzzzzzzz til it was like buzzzzzzzZZZ and the blood hit the floor. As did the razor with a resounding FUCK THIS FUCK YOU – NO! from me, (and a huge fit of laughter from him).

So, for some reason it seems to be easier to lean to the right than to the left. This was a challenge. Kind of like reading braille…after taking a kindergarten course in reading braille but not being blind. I gently struggle through this with a peek here and there as to what the fuck was going on down there. So then, section 7. Which to me, is the whole front part – like when you look at a person straight on, the part you will see. It also incorporates the part that will stick out of your super sexy shorty shorts in the summertime. Now this people, is where I came to a sad realization.

I realized that I can no longer actually look at my hootie straight on. Its not because it “hurts” or is “uncomfortable”. It is because it is not physically fuckin’ possible! Right this minute in my journey, I am at the place where I could stop and it be explainable…but if I have struggled this far, I might as well finish right? Very cautiously I proceed until it feels like a hedgehog, which is honestly the best we can hope for without the promise of red, angry, itchy as fuck razor burn garunteed to keep me crossing my legs and bending at the knees when wearing pants for about a week.

Success! My hairless, conditioned, beautiful, round self is out of the shower. and ready to take a sexy pic to send to my husband to liven up the end of the work night, right? WRONG. SO fuckin’ wrong. when you are in your third trimester with your second child, no matter how hairless and fantastic you are, there is no flattering angle you can get with the front camera of a smartphone and the dim yellowish lights of a bathroom. or bedroom. or flash. or a lamp. or the back camera and a mirror. *heavy sigh*    *hits middle home button with another sigh of defeat*

This is my story of my struggle that I had tonight. I would love to hear your story and musings on the difficulties of maintaining any kind of beauty ritual while you’re prego! Holy shit, on a side note…I was just looking for some images to put in this post and thought, ‘hey, I will google shaving while pregnant and see what happens’. youtube videos popped up. ohhh noooo. Wait, so some woman shave/wax for labor? I already have my second c-section scheduled so this is something I haven’t considered. Someone please elaborate and share your story/opinion!

An Alternative Perspective of a Waitress

We all know what a waitress is and does. But I have another perspective for you. I am a server at a popular restaurant in the busiest airport in the world, and I love my job. I encounter hundreds of people from all over the world every day – business men/women, families, soldiers, entertainers, racists, sexists, activists…the list is infinite. Working in this environment is a WHOLE different ballgame than working streetside, (like your local restaraunts in your hometowns and cities), in so many ways. If you think you have assessed which stereotypes are the desirable types to have at your table, I can tell you right now you are 99% wrong. I came into this job with expectations of what I was going to encounter – and every single one was just wrong wrong wrong. I worked at Cracker Barrel as my first serving job…I was there for training, and then for four days after that. It was HORRRRRRIBLE, but that is another post for another day. Starting this job was like baptism by fire in the way of learning customer service.

The people I encounter are in the AIRPORT. I hate flying, I hate the process, it is expensive, exhausting, stressful, confusing, and just really sucky. Especially when you deal with sucky ass employees. They hate their job, they hate being there, they hate you, they hate me, and they probably hate themselves. But what does that do for you? If I were flying, and went in somewhere looking for a little chill, a little comfort, or a little help, and the person was shitty to me…that would ruin my day! It just seems to me that we all forget that our attitudes have impacts on others. I think some forget, and some just plain don’t give a shit.

How have we collectively as a people lost our compassion for others? the amount of energy it takes to just smile at someone is minimal at best. No matter how shitty my day is, I always imagine that the difficult person I am dealing with is having a shittier day than I. I get to go back to my nice home with my wonderful husband (who is a server at the same restaurant) and continue on with my life. I can’t say the same for them…it is impossible for me to know what that person is going to. Maybe they are flying to Iraq, maybe they are going to their mother’s funeral, and maybe they are an escort flying to meet their client, (all of these I have encountered). My point is is that I DONT KNOW. And the best thing that I can do is be as kind and helpful as possible. Will they remember me? Probably not. And that is okay. But I go home with a clear conscience of knowing that I did what I could to at the very least, not make it any harder on them. I wish more people would consider this and practice this.

So I will end with this – dear other waitresses, airport employees, and customers: stop being so shitty to other people and just be nice….it is a LOT easier i promise!!!