The time I got it wrong

I hate to be wrong. As much as I love to be right (who doesn't?), I hate to be wrong even more. I have lots of reasons for this, but since they revolve around my self-psychoanalysis, I'll spare you the details. Just know that I viscerally hate to be wrong. Imagine, then, the internal turmoil... Continue Reading →

Identity crisis

I love food. For most of my life, creating it has been part of my identity. As an adolescent, I baked. When, as a newly minted adult, I called myself a good cook, my dad countered and said I was a good baker--he didn't really know whether I could cook. So I rose to the... Continue Reading →

Piece by piece

I just found this in some old files. It's something I wrote years ago but had forgotten. I still believe it. What if life isn’t a tapestry, a garment patterned by events, moods, cycles, and stages? Where even a slight change in weave changes the visual effect? What if life, instead, is a collection of... Continue Reading →

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