Hey! I’m Sara. I live down south and sometimes I have a foul mouth.
So why name this blog “The Messy Mrs”? I’m a hot mess careening over a zillion metaphorical cliffs. My idea of a manicure is tossing together some asparagus with olive oil using my fingers. I am a HOT MESS and I like HOT CHICKEN.
People ask me for advice all the time. I NEED Y’ALL TO STOP DOING THAT. I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT, unless it’s about food. I can guide you through making a soufflé, the right way to truss a chicken, and infinity cooking hacks in between… but the day I write a self-help book is the day y’all need to click the “unfollow” button. I am not one to follow. I have no sh** together. My ducks are not in a row. I have no ducks. I have hyenas and they definitely give the impression that they’re on some kind of crack. My life is a mess. My house is a mess. My google history is a mess. My purse is a mess. My emotions are a mess. My tweets are a mess. It’s honestly surprising that I’m employable at all.
*So you might say* that I get super uncomfortable talking about myself. Idk. I like going to farmer’s markets and having a near-flirtatious experience with vegetables. I’m just not that interesting. This is about FOOD. It is not about me. I know not one of you gives zero f***s what inspired me to come up with the recipe. You don’t care how the casserole impacts my marriage. You just want the damn recipe. I got you. I added a “shut up Sara” button to all recipe posts so you can skip my content before the recipe if you want.
Now, when it comes to food, even though I know my stuff… I *technically* have no “real” culinary education. This means I have no degree or formal culinary schooling. I started cooking with every grandma I ever had from the time I could stand on a step-stool. Seeing that the most prominent family tradition my lineage accomplished was divorce/remarriage, I had a metric sheesh-ton of grandmas to learn from. They taught me almost everything I know and google did the rest. Basically, I come from Le Hard Knocks and this taught me that you don’t need to have a formal food education to have your food game be on point. If I can do it, so can you. I’m here to pull you out of your cooking comfort zone and (hopefully) make you laugh while you do it.
I live with my husband of 15 years and our teenage son. We have two dogs who benefit greatly from their mom’s (borderline agoraphobic) need to cook in rain, shine, tsunami, under threat of murder hornets, etc. When the sh** really hits the fan and we have an Armageddon situation of a giant asteroid streaking toward Earth that’s going to take us all out, I’ll be in the kitchen whipping up something to do with hollandaise or homemade biscuits enjoying every last calorie before I go from eating toast to becoming toast.
I am the one you want to call in the event of a mess… likely because I’ve probably been in some catastrophic ones that makes yours pale in comparison. I’ll show up with Advil and bottled water and a bag of groceries and force my food self-medication on you with whatever I whip up. I bypassed becoming either one of my parents and became my great-grandma forcefully feeding everyone even after they say they’re miserably full.
If you cook up something or reference me on social media or just want to commiserate with other folks in some kind of hot mess pickle, just use the hashtag #BlessThatMess After all, we’re all in this together. We may as well laugh it off.
I don’t fit in with others. I’m too loud. Too messy. I feel too much. I am too much. I may not fit in with all of you, but all of you fit with me.
I love y’all more’n my luggage!
Word on the Street