Despite the likelihood of meltdowns, however, riding that line between culinary success and disaster makes me feel alive.
A couple of weeks ago on my way to bed, I was walking past the bedroom closet that serves as our laundry room when the dog, two steps behind me, stopped so fast his brakes squealed.
When I got notice this summer that I was being summoned for my first-ever jury draw, I cheered, as anyone would.
This fall, our household suffered a series of appliance failures. Among the casualties: our toaster.
“What I must do first, above all else,” I said, speaking slowly to emphasize the enormity of what I was about to tell her, “is weave a fall table runner.”
Lately, I’ve been embracing my European side.
Monday morning, I texted a coworker: “Did it rain this weekend? I wouldn’t know, because we were away.”
Maybe it was when nighttime temps got down into the low 50s, but I suddenly felt compelled to stack the six cords of wood.
Summer’s not over yet, but I’ve conducted a preliminary assessment of my 2022 No-Garden Plan, and here are my findings: I’m an idiot.
I did something a little crazy last week: I had fun.
In late June, I decided to revamp my very old, very basic website, on which I kept a selection of past columns.
In recent weeks, I’ve learned something about myself: I like people.
I don’t know about you, but I’ve been having a delightful spring. I feel more at ease this year, more able to enjoy the longer days and warmer weather, and less worried that I’m falling behind on my to-do list.
Last Thursday while lifting weights, I felt a twinge in my lower back. I corrected my form, finished the workout and forgot all about it.
There’s nothing quite as enjoyable as spending a spring evening fishing. At least that’s what Mark says. But then, he practically grew up with a fishing pole over his shoulder. I grew up with a book bag over mine.