Don’t forget to enter the Cuppow giveaway via our Eat Clean Challenge at the end of this post!
Dreams do come true.
I know because yesterday I shook hands with a Disneyland Imagineer for the first time. A real, living, breathing, down-to-earth Imagineer!
Okay, so maybe the “real living breathing” part isn’t that impressive–even I’m capable of those–but an Imagineer. Ohmygosh. Somebody get me my paper bag because I take back what I just said and I suck at breathing right now.
My brain gets crazy addled every time I talk to someone for whom I have the highest respect. Same thing happened when I ate popsicles once with Gail Carson Levine at my literary agent’s annual party, i.e. I died from sheer joy and shredded through about ten paper bags in a two-hour period.
As it happened, K the Imagineer was incredibly illuminating (hah appropriate, considering he is responsible for designing and producing the fixture lights in all the Disney parks around the world!) and really inspired me to keep pushing towards my dream of show writing or envisioning creative concepts for Disney. It was kind of an amazing and extremely humbling (in the best way) experience.
Now here’s the problem. Of course, there has to be a problem. Continue reading
I’ve finally given in and gone to the dark side: Follow me on Instagram. I hear the dark side has some bomb PB&J bars… Life is full of hypotheticals:
My best friend may be the child of alien dodos.
Neil Patrick Harris may be secretly, madly in love with me.
And I may or may not be obsessed with peanut butter & jelly.
As you can probably tell by the ridiculous amount of food porn in this post, that last hypothetical is so totally up for debate.
I mean, just look at that peanut butter pouring down and through that lusciously gooey raw square like so much suntan lotion slathered all over Chris Evans‘s gorgeous body. Who’d want that?
Not me. No siree. Continue reading
Let’s talk dates for a moment here.
First thing first: dates. Yes, I’m talking about the edible kind–although the strange, single-as-a-one-digit-number part of me is convinced that dating would be a lot more interesting if my dates really were edible. As in, “Have you met my date, Mister Hot Chocolate? Word on the street is that he can get pretty steamy.“
Chances are, you have stumbled across copycat larabar recipes before now. I’m not introducing you to them because they’re new. I’m introducing you to them because they are awesome, and if you are like Me One Month Ago–sitting on your butt ogling at these larabar pictures but also totally doubting the sanity of my taste buds, because how in holy heck could anything with three ingredients actually taste awesome–this is why I’m introducing you to them. Because if you are reading this post and not making these bars pronto, you need to be converted. NOW.
It’s a running joke among all my friends that I am the most horrendous baker/blogger in existence–75 chocolate chip cookies later, and I’ve eaten what: one cookie? Half of one cookie? Who does that? In my field (that’s English grad school, for those of you who are new to WG) and in my defense, you don’t get by without self-discipline. And I am pretty much a discipline Beast when I want to be, so unless I am on a total emotional spree that afternoon, whatever comes out of my kitchen usually escapes unscathed. (Note: This does not account for the generous portions of batter, ‘crumbs,’ or last-spoonfuls-of-nut-butter-in-a-jar that fill my tummy during each baking session. This is why I totally prefer to bake alone: I’ll pass on the spoon-licking judgment!) Continue reading