It occurs to me that there are many voices whispering into the ears of new(ish) parents, particularly around Christmastime. For one, there is the reality that we are not getting any younger, that these babies are precious and this time is weighty. Make the memory! Seize the day! We have only seventeen Decembers left before
I haven’t given much thought to birds in the past. Once, when visiting India, I remember noticing that when a flock of pigeons would fly all around you it was like breath, like molecule, their noisy wings thrumming to the beat of your own heart. You were altogether surrounded. As if you were the same.
The temps have dropped and there’s a pie in the oven, and Harold the Backyard Squirrel has been in hiding all week long. So yes, I suppose it’s time. And while I’m not prone to penning gift guides on the regular, I’ve noticed a staggering pattern in my normal inbox requests: Erin! My niece is
Listen. I don’t claim to know a thing or two about cooking or baking or sauteeing, about chiffonade techniques or a parboil. If you point me in the direction of a culinary kitchen, I will be unable to name approximately 84% of the available trappings. Basting and barding and blanching? Foreign languages. But food placing?
Holiday excitement hit early in these parts. We started our annual Christmas puzzle in October (I know, I know) and have gone through no less than three sacks of flour since. The garden rosemary is dwindling; the cinnamon restocked twice. For two weeks now, I’ve passed the hallway and smiled at the quiet glow of
I don’t know what came over me exactly. I just know that, somewhere in the nostalgic depths of my mind, there is an image of an aproned mother in pearls and lipstick pulling a loaf of homemade, freshly-risen, flour-dusted bread straight out of the kitchen oven. My mother didn’t bake bread. I don’t even think
Boone Pickens perhaps said it best: When you are hunting elephants, don’t get distracted chasing rabbits. This week’s rabbit: Stranger Things. I’m not a TV watcher by nature, but every now and then, a show will grip my immediate community so tightly that it becomes a focal point for conversation after conversation, theories and recaps
Bang trims, watercolors, mango slices. Musical reenactments in the sunroom, her stage. She wants to know how to spell Gaston, needs to borrow a tote as a prop, asks me to put ‘Kill the Beast’ on repeat. For a bit, I say, sliding the door shut. She remembers candied pecans and puzzles from last winter,