I’m not sure if the first time I went to Powell’s Bookstore felt like slipping through the wardrobe. Continue reading
Last night I finished a personal essay. One thousand one hundred and ninety eight words, as it stands. I had to drink a lot of whiskey.
I almost didn’t write it, but I was kindly bullied by a Twitter friend. She gave me a deadline. She encouraged me. She put me on the spot.
Like Lizzy Bennet, I never avoid challenges. I laugh in the face of danger. Until I cry. Continue reading
- People ask me how old I was when I learned to cook, which is not the right question. At 29, I am still learning how to cook. The right question is when did I learn that cooking food for people gave me satisfaction. I was thirteen. Under the kind supervision of my grandfather I’d made a whole chicken for my family. And when my family leaned back from their plates, every one wiped clean, it was (and still is) a highlight of my life.