Former teacher, current therapist, mother to my two favorite kids, wife to my favorite adult.
The Night Jogger
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. You’ve jogged past the cabin a thousand times, though you know your mother would be furious if she knew. There’s something about the woods at night that feels so liberating, invigorating, and yes, maybe even a little spooky. A little unsafe. So you changed your usual course a while ago, and maybe that little tingle of fear, that invisible, primordial pressure on your shoulders, makes you run just that much faster. And what could be wrong with that? Not a thing, of course.
Red, Bread, Redemption
The first time I really ate a tomato was years after the first time I’d tried one. For most of my childhood, tomatoes seemed like a cruel joke: ruby red, shiny and promising, begging to be tasted, only to deliver a flavorless, mealy mouthful of lies. Sliced up straight from the fridge or surrounded by ice of questionable hygiene in the salad bar of our local pizza place, the tomatoes of my youth in the 90s were, frankly, a travesty. I can’t remember a single kid I knew who liked tomatoes. I knew people who liked brussel sprouts, but not tomatoes. For a long time, all I wanted for lunch was a cheese and pickle sandwich, and I was known to eat blue cheese and radishes as an after school snack, but tomatoes? No thanks.