If you love some good fungi, you’ll enjoy this recipe for Balsamic Sautéed Mushrooms. It brings out the rich, deep flavor of mushrooms in the best way. The sweetness of the balsamic complements the earthiness of the mushrooms. The recipe only takes a few minutes to make, so you can even whip it up at the last minute if you feel like whatever protein you're serving needs a little something extra.

Every Thanksgiving, I set out a dish with cranberry sauce the way my grandmother used to make it—right from the can, ridges in tact. It reminds me of her and helped us find joy in the midst of grief during one particular Thanksgiving. Of course, I like to include some homemade cranberry sauce, too, like this version with pomegranate and orange.

The last couple weeks have been filled with all the normal chaos of life—sickness, things in our home breaking or needing to be cleaned, a two-year-old very vocally voicing his opinions, skipped naps, and pediatrician appointments. It’s not been anything completely out of the ordinary—just tiring. But I find myself frustrated that I can’t seem to get ahead on tasks and annoyed at the inconveniences of life.

This is no ordinary cider. Browned butter, brown sugar, and flaky sea salt get added to a steaming cup of mulled apple cider. It's fall in a cup.

This past spring and summer, I felt stuck in a cooking rut. This activity that usually gave me so much joy left me feeling completely depleted. I didn’t want to cook for my family. Having four-year-olds complain about what you put in front of them certainly didn’t motivate me to work harder in the kitchen. I didn’t even really want to cook for the blog. I felt lost in a sea of food bloggers and writers, not totally fitting in in either space, and I felt creatively depleted.

We slide into the diner booth, scooting along the faux leather benches as our server hands us an impossibly large menu. My husband sits next to me and my dad in the seat across from us. Going to a place like this reminds me of my childhood. I grew up in New Jersey where diners are about as common as Starbucks in the Chicago suburbs. There's one on every corner, each with giant, plastic-covered menus showcasing all kinds of omelettes, skillets, French toast, crepes, sandwiches, and anything else you could possibly think to eat for breakfast or lunch.

I sat at the kitchen table with a blue plastic bowl full of applesauce, spoon-feeding my son, Josiah. My three-year-old twins ran laps around the house, and for a few moments I savored the fact that they were playing well together. No fighting, no tantrums, no tears. I overheard whispers about superheroes, and I knew what was coming. They stomped upstairs to retrieve their blankets and within a minute stood next to me asking for help tying on capes.