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Growing up, we didn’t have a whole lot of extra food lying around the house. This was not an indicator of deprivation in any form. Far from it.

But, with two little girls, money and time were tight. So, if the request for a certain item was not legibly written on my mother’s grocery list before 9 AM Saturday morning, you were out of luck.

Every once and awhile, three bananas would magically appear on the kitchen counter. My father, sister and I would exchange silent glances to inquire whether the others had made the request for the fruit.

No, no and no. When the answer was negative all the way around, we knew what to do. Walk away and don’t touch the bananas. Forget you saw them.

They, since not requested, were not for free consumption. The bright yellow fruit was to stay undisturbed, uneaten until brown flecks began to appear.

A day later, as the sugars continued to be released from within and the flecks had unified to form long bruises on the skin, they were ready.

Ready to be mashed into a beautiful loaf of banana bread.

I still love the smell of banana bread baking, the aroma released during its baking is both deliciously unmistakable and wholly comforting.

To consume a fresh, warm slice from the oven is heavenly. Just add a good cup of coffee for the perfect breakfast.

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Making my own tortillas was not something that ever registered as a possibility or, for that matter, a necessity.

While I have played extensively with the components of fajitas or soft tacos over the past couple years, the tortillas were always an afterthought. The only component shoved into my grocery basket, in it’s prepackaged plastic, without any care or concern.

But, somehow, when Cinqo de Mayo rolled around earlier this month, I was craving a meaty, juicy fajita wrapped in the best tortilla I had never made.

My work schedule left me helplessly craving this creation through long, endless shifts. So, it took me a few extra days, but I finally ventured into my kitchen, ready to take on a task bigger than just filling my coffee mug.

Armed with the most basic of ingredients - flour, salt, butter and hot water - and a visual inspiration by Butter + Cream, I was ready to make my own tortillas for the first time in my entire life.

The oh-so-simple ingredients and preparation yielded the homiest, flavorful tortilla I have ever tasted. Hot off the griddle and amazingly delicious, even before any other ingredients were neatly piled in the middle.

I wrapped the hot tortillas in a warm cloth, packaged up the other additions and ventured to midtown to share a belated Cinqo de Mayo picnic lunch with Mike, who instantly fell in love with the newest addition to my recipes.

Before the meal was even close to complete, we were already discussing the unseen benefits of making your own tortillas - ability to control size and thickness - and I was dreaming of other flavor combinations for the future.

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Among other kitchen related items, my sister gave me sea salt for Christmas.

I love sea salt.

I especially love sea salt on these fresh brioche rolls, just pulled from the toasty oven.

A thin (okay, okay not-so-thin) smear of Nutella is just about all that is needed here.

Last week in the kitchen, there was some extra brioche up for grabs. I was just about to leave, so I wrapped up a few slices to take home with me for a special treat for breakfast the following morning.

I placed two slices in the toaster, on the lowest setting so as to just warm the bread, and felt a slight twinge of guilt. I used to make a batch of bagels every weekend for Mike, which would provide a yummy, homemade breakfast throughout the week.

But life has been incredibly hectic, not unlike most of the previous year, but especially so around the holidays.

Pop! The brioche was ready. I prepared the warm slices just how I like them, with a thin smear of Nutella. I served them to Mike with his morning coffee.

And what happened? He fell in love - with the brioche and Nutella that is. He wanted to know how much brioche was left. Only two pieces. Enough to make it to the weekend.

So in between laundry, cooking, cleaning, baking, shopping and wrapping this weekend, I prepared a loaf of brioche just for Mike. A special treat for the groggy mornings ahead.

I used the recipe from school which I thought was amazing when we made it in class. I’ll go ahead and ruin the ending by saying that it does not even compare to Gramercy’s version.

Have you ever made brioche at home? The dough is amazingly beautiful. I do not have a dough hook, so I just used the paddle for my Kitchen Aid.

It is kind of a sticky dough when the ingredients are first combined and placed in the mixer for about twenty minutes.

Just before the dough is ready, it begins to pull away from the sides of the bowl and climb up the attachment.

When it is finished in the mixer, it is transfered to a bowl where it will begin fermentation. Just look how beautifully silky the dough is!

Now it has to double in volume, which took about two hours due to the chill in the air. It is then transferred to the refrigerator, where the fermentation is slowed and the butter becomes solid again. I let it sit in the refrigerator overnight.

The next morning I shaped the dough and placed it into a parchment-lined loaf pan. Again, it had to rise until doubled in volume. This only took about an hour since the kitchen was already warm from baking.

Once it was properly risen, I gently applied an egg wash and popped it in the oven. The baking brioche filled the apartment with the warm, comforting scents of yeast and butter.

Once the top was properly browned, it was ready to cool.

Mike ran out to pick up a few things for me at the store so I did not have to face the snow. He was rewarded with fresh-from-the-oven brioche with Nutella.

The coffee is brewing as I slice into a fresh loaf of banana bread.

The weekend is over tomorrow, which makes me sullen. I feel trapped in my job. Sometimes I don’t think I will ever see the day when I can leave it for good.

Keeping up this schedule each week is exhausting and I can see the toll it is taking in the dark circles under my eyes, visible through my fair skin.

My mind races with my never-ending “To Do” list. So many things I have to put off for another day, another week.

I want to take an hour-long bubble bath, extra bubbly, with Michael Buble serenading me. I want to revisit the lingering lunch Mike and I shared, way back in January, in a cozy restaurant with good food, good beer and snow falling outside. I want to sit on the porch in Virginia with a big glass of wine and my family around me.

Breathe.

I sit and take a sip of coffee, a bite of banana bread. Mike joins me. For five minutes, all of my worries are forgotten.