Writing. Art. Design. Food. Faith. Life.
It started with pieces of me gone with my babies, pieces left behind by grief. I am mother, writer, artist, web professional, exploring parenting, spirituality, grief, food, and semi-crunchy living. Yes, I’m in fragments, but it’s a beautiful mess, and I’m blessed to be broken.
That moment when you realize that you feel all the things — “good” (grateful, blessed, lucky, privileged) and “bad” (scared, anxious, worried, unconfident) — and that’s what being alive is. You know when people choose a word for the year as inspiration? I think I’ve finally found my word. My…
I don’t think Calvin Trillin is racist—I don’t have enough information to definitively conclude that he is a racist person. Knowing that he is a food and humor writer, I have no reason to doubt his honesty in saying that the poem “was simply a way of making fun of food-obsessed bourgeoisie….” That being said, IMO, Trillin’s intent ≠ the actual effect (I think most writers know that this can happen, and that it can happen a lot…).
“I love Calvin. He was my brother.” This morning, we stopped by the art store after our chiro appointment, and Charlie picked out paper that he wanted to use “to wrap Calvin’s present.” It was green foil with green dots. After we got home, he asked me for a box….