When it comes to cooking, I seem to have a split personality. Sometimes the overly-ambitious, make-everything-from-scratch Chelsey shows up in the kitchen, flushed with thoughts of freshly boiled bagels or homemade strawberry preserves. She asks for ice cream makers and pasta machines for her birthday and doesn’t question spending $15 on a literal pinch of saffron. She gets up early for the farmers market and plans her weekly menu on lovely stationery, glowing with good intentions and Saturday morning optimism.
Then there’s the other Chelsey. Continue reading
The first time I met her, I thought she looked like a gypsy. She wore a neon orange peasant skirt that skimmed the floor when she walked, the objects inside her overstuffed sequined purse rearranging themselves with every step. Large silver hoops dangled from her ears. She flashed a wide smile, revealing a tiny and endearing gap between her two front teeth.
“I’m Tia!” She exclaimed, extending her arm for an anemic handshake our friend Bethany would someday lecture her about improving. It was probably the only weak thing about her. In the nine years that have passed since than moment in our college dorm, I have become well-acquainted with the ironclad opinions and unshakable resolve of Therissa (to me, forever “Tia”) Johnson. Continue reading
A few weeks into our marriage, Jason made a heartbreaking declaration over a bowl of spaghetti.
“I don’t think I like pasta.”
He might as well have said “I don’t think I want kids” or “I think God is calling me to be a missionary in Iran.” There are certain things one should discuss before saying “I do,” but I never thought to bring up noodles—my absolute favorite food. Is this what we meant in our marriage vows when we promised unconditional, sacrificial love? Continue reading