Two years ago, on a brightly lit stage in West L.A., Maria Shriver asks me this: But how? How do you do it? What would you tell someone who wants to slow their life, but can’t? Who feels totally buried already? I pause, blink at the lights. I say something about how there’s no easy
First, something: I’m wary of assigning sanctimonious yarns to everyday behaviors. In truth, what makes for a good habit today doesn’t always carry the years. Related – For months, in college, I subsisted solely on free dinner rolls from the restaurant I waitressed at in a valiant attempt to save enough money for my first
Well, this one simply didn’t turn out is what I’ll say first.
If your home is carried by the spine of a book, if you find yourself up past midnight to devour just one last chapter, if you’ve ever left the party early because there’s a riveting tale tented on your nightstand, you’ll know what it means to encounter joy in 300 pages or less.
You make this cake when it’s been overcast for four days and you’ve pulled another sweater out of storage for the week ahead. When it’s unseasonably gray, and you’re unseasonably gray, and if the weather calls for fall, why not summon a bit of cinnamon spirit?
On a walk in the woods, it’s not uncommon to transform. Who do you want to be today? I ask.
This is the cake you bake for your kids’ uncle. The one who’s not technically blood, but definitely brother. The one who never skips the occasion to send a handwritten letter from miles away, who shows up on Christmas morning with a cardboard box bigger than your car. He who cheers on every loose tooth,
As it stands, I’m not much for honey. But you know what I am one for? Honey-whipped cream, in a cold metal bowl fresh for the whisking. Taking turns getting elbow cramps with a daughter, both faux-complaining, knowing all the well we’re better for the wait.