Nothing makes me more optimistic than the first page of a new journal. The world shimmers with promise and wonder as I survey the tidy lines, mustering a sentence worthy of the white space. My handwriting that first entry is notably neat, the prose aiming for profundity (though frequently missing). I’ve amassed dozens of first journal entries since I began writing them at age eight. Unfortunately my perfectionism predates my passion for writing; I saw anything but daily journaling a failure and often ripped out a month’s worth of entries because I skipped a single day.
I’ve matured a bit since my journal-purging years. I can even return to a blog after 33 post-less days and refrain from deleting the entire site. Continue reading
Yesterday my husband stumbled into the kitchen at 9 a.m., eyes squinting and hair mashed to one side. His eyes trailed from the potato-streaked mixing bowls to to the flour-dusted countertops before finally landing on me: hands slathered with softened butter, arm halfway up the ass of a 17-pound, free-range turkey. “Do you need any help?” he croaked.
“No,” I said, with a flourish that earned the line a Scarlett O’Hara inflection in his numerous retellings. “This,” I gushed, “is my Super Bowl.” Continue reading
After a few false starts, fall has finally settled here in north Texas—and nowhere is this more evident than the bowls of produce on my kitchen counter. My tableau of stoplight tomatoes and blushing peaches has given way to the jeweled tones and dappled textures of autumn: leathery potatoes, emerald apples, freckled pears, garnet grapes. Standing in my kitchen, surveying my farmers market bounty, I understand why artists have been known to break out their oil paints in the presence of such exquisite, accessible beauty. Continue reading