I Don’t Feel Like Cooking Tonight
I often struggle to admit when I’d rather be anywhere but the kitchen.
I often struggle to admit when I’d rather be anywhere but the kitchen.
I identify my mugs by a familiar stain around their edges.
But when a place is hardly (if ever) depicted, a place can be stereotyped into invisibility.
Reading others’ work and wondering if you could write between the gaps of their legacies.
The words didn’t seem so distant from everyday life, from the people who’d small-talk about crops over their coffee.
The long-dead Ada does not need to be the only woman we know in STEM.
When I move the last box out of this place, I will no longer live next to four years of memories.
Antonio Vivaldi captured his spring’s breezes in his concertos, and yet I always welcome spring with a wince.
The disembodied voice on the end of the line is just doing its job.
Why not examine writing’s power through words that can be hummed as well as read?
Praising goodness demands much less than participating in it.
We’ve drunk wassail and hot cocoa from festive mugs, and we’ve streamed virtual concerts in gaudy sweaters.
When you cook, you play with fire, and (sooner or later) you’ll be playing with carbon too.
I’d scour the library then return home with an armload of feminist literary retellings.
I didn’t long for the suffering, but a part of me envied the certainty it seemed to produce.
For thousands living abroad or in Spain, wondering and waiting, the years dragged on and on.
Like most people around the world, I have not attended a live performance in months.
I’ve arranged this top ten in a completely subjective, completely nerdy manner: how excited am I to write with it?
When you work with children’s books, cats are inescapable.
After a month of stay-at-home orders, suddenly everyone’s a baker.
How do you speak confusion to God?
I remember kids’ delight in the graphic novel section, the way they stacked book after book in their arms. But I also remember parents’ reactions when their kids reached that shelf.
While the myth of the lone genius is dangerous for the successful artist, it is absolutely cruel to the aspiring artist.
We tell the stories as we want to know them, withholding the details that would round them into truth.
With every bite of these foods, we eat our history, and we inherit the ingenuity of immigrants, slaves, presidents, and chili queens who crafted the foods we love today.
When we cannot speak to God, cannot even say the barest “I love you,” we are carried.
Several things happen at once: ba-boom. Flicker. Shatter.
While the pace of change has slowed down, my identity is still catching up.
In the many centuries of death and love and loss since this story was first told, when would we not return to this story?
On paper, on screen, will you see my words?