Tonight I thought I would be a supportive friend and visit my girlfriend, RuthAnn, at her new job as a waitress at California Pizza Kitchen. The kids and I went there for dinner tonight and we also took a friend of Lindsey's along. The food was good, the service was excellent, of course, and I was happily prepared to give my buddy a generous tip and thank her before we left the restaurant. Jokingly before she brought the bill, I told her that Corey, Lindsey's friend from school, would wash dishes in the restaurant's kitchen to pay for our meal. The joke was on me when RuthAnn delivered our check and I reached for my wallet and remembered that it was on my desk at home. I had been making reservations for our summer vacation plans and grabbed it from my purse as I was booking accommodations for July. How embarrassing. RuthAnn and I laughed about it, then she went through her apron pocket and scraped together $51 in cash to cover the ticket. She asked me what I would have done if it weren't for her being our waitress. I really have no idea what I would have done, as this has never happened previously. Thanks, RuthAnn, for covering me! You certainly looked like a pro in your CPK uniform and you were an excellent waitress. I hope you raked in some good tips for the rest of the night and I promise to bring you the $51 plus tip tomorrow. (Updated to add that I did give her the money the next day, like a good friend should.)
I considered myself to be a decent cook and baker. However, candy making had been unchartered territory until I recently cracked the code of a favorite—chewy Texas Pecan Pralines. This culinary epiphany came only days before I left my home sweet home in Austin, Texas, to return to CU Boulder after an epic hiatus to wrap up my bachelor’s degree in journalism. When I was a little girl, I remember tasting heavenly, creamy homemade pralines, bursting with pecans, handcrafted with love by my mom. She only whipped them up a few times, but I just couldn’t get the memory of those buttery, sugary treats out of my head. They were that good. I asked her if she still had the recipe, but I knew it would be hopeless since my mom wasn’t one for keeping track of her down-home style cooking. I married my college sweetheart, a guy with the same first name as me, and began teaching myself to cook. Becoming “Kelly Times Two” was amazing, and I had ...
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