Me. Rooftop. Ten million years ago.
Once upon a time, there was a girl. She wore blazers and red lipstick, and lived in a fourth-floor walkup apartment with a hole in its floor and a stove that routinely tried to kill her. One day, she decided that she wanted to quit her terrible, horrible job in HR (a job that mostly involved her crying at – and sometimes under – her desk), and write a blog.
…What would this blog be about?
Being a Domestic Goddess, of course! Which, as the girl interpreted it, meant cooking and entertaining and decorating like an elfin Martha Stewart on speed, and doing it all with the sort of effortless panache that Instagram filters would later make much, much easier to fake.
The only problem: This girl was very much not a Domestic Goddess in any sense of the word. One fairly major conundrum that quickly presented itself: She seriously could not cook, outside of a couple of dishes she very fancily called her “specialties” but were really “the only things she knew how to make.” Her favorite dinner was frozen tortellini with some Prego thrown on top (still a classic, just saying).
But she was going to write this cooking/entertaining/decorating blog if it killed her. She was going to make things, and then photograph these things, and then write about these things, and she was going to do it every. single. day.
What did this mean?
It meant that the girl made a LOT of pasta. Because one thing you cannot F up? Is pasta.
Look at these bebes, eating pasta! Also ZOMG that lamp #memories
Happy National Pasta Day! Let’s take a stroll down memory lane.
