I’m Mary Peña. Formerly Mary Smith, the next “is that your real name” was going to be answered with a bullet, and my fella’s surname works so much better as my own. Unfortunately, there’s a federally naughty Mary Peña at large, and air travel has since become more of a dialogue.
For five years, I’ve been enjoying time at home with six-year-old Billy the Kid, already a formidable gardener and sous-chef, and during that time have produced an additional two individuals, Sally and Linda. I run a noisy, but tight ship, with my three top priorities being to keep everyone alive, to prevent household fires, and to raise content, kind people who, if I play my cards right, will ensure I spend my twilight in a deliciously expensive retirement chateau. We get out every morning by 9:00 to kick the day in the pants, and spend our afternoons hermitted up, baking, crafting, and depreciating the value of my house. It’s an exhausting but great life, made substantially easier by the unfaltering assistance of my dashing husband, Mr. P, who I should note is responsible for any of this making it onto a screen.
I’m not a particularly healthy cook, nor do I have any professional training. My first recipes came from my grandparents’ generation and the 1969 Betty Crocker cookbook. The areas in which I do my best cooking are hors d’oeuvres and baking, but with a one-person income and a house full of Americans, I’m mainly concerned with hearty and versatile. Enjoy the butter!