I like to pretend that I’m a writer.
Classic, with a Twist
If the world were to be divided between “foodies” and “non-foodies,” my husband and I would be on opposite sides. I love food. I spent most meals fantasizing about what my next snack will be. As a little girl, my first phrase was, “Out to eat!” To quote my mother, “I live to eat.” And there’s so much food to live for!
From the Headlines
BOSTON - One Roxbury man considers this past Friday the 13th to be his lucky day. Thomas O’Brien, 34, stumbled upon a mysterious package near Downtown Crossing. O’Brien, who frequents the Red Line on his daily commute, regularly collects litter to keep the city clean. According to O’Brien, Friday started just like any other day.
Devil’s Food Cake
I’m not sure how I became sentient. I just know that I am aware—fully, truly self-aware—right now. My origin story is made up of a hodgepodge of pieces. Flour. Butter. Salt. Sugar. Eggs. Cocoa powder. Milk. Baking soda. Essentially, I'm a combination of starches and sugars, fats and leavening agents, all married in precise ratios. Exterior heat allowed me to rise slowly, creating bubbles of carbon dioxide. The gluten in my veins was perfectly textured—slowly beaten into my batter, but not overworked.
The highlight of Drew's summers was sleeping in the barn. Every July, his family would venture westward, crossing the country by car until they reached Grandpa Muller's farm in southern Kansas. Drew would clutch the tattered road map in the back seat—his dad would call him "The Navigator”—and would check off each state with a waxy crayon upon crossing its border. Each state line was a countdown.
“We should’ve named you Grace.” My father coined this one-liner early in my childhood. I was gangly youngster, perpetually covered in paper cuts, mystery bruises, and mosquito bites. When I first met my grandmother—at two years of age—I greeted her with a face scabbed over from a fall. As soon as I could walk, I was clumsy. And man, did my dad love the subtle hilarity of sarcasm.
Through the Fence
The first time I saw Alice was on Instagram. I was elbows deep scrolling through the followers of the pet account I had set up for Edgar, our one-and-a-half year old Olde English Bulldogge, when I saw Alice’s face. It was posted by a small family hobby breeder that Edgar “followed.” Her face was white, and her eyes—one brown, one blue—stared sadly though a chain link fence. The post caption stated that she had returned to their home after three months with a family. The breeders were looking for a new home for her—somewhere with room where she could be cozy inside with a family most of the day. She was barely six months old.