Blog

My little house smells like cardamom and almonds and coconut oil and maple syrup and oats because I just baked a pan of granola. It’s the first time I’ve baked granola since I moved out of my other house, which was also a bed and breakfast– which is to say since I left my marriage and set out into a hopeful and nearly blank new world less than eleven months ago. Making granola feels important, because it is. I still know the recipe by heart. A recipe I came across or came up

I’m being cozy with myself. Curious, and gentle. Quiet, on this day without work or much for obligations. I dropped my son off at school. (He was wearing a double-breasted coat, gray wool with a brilliant fuscia lining. It was a lost-and-found offering from a friend. I love that he loves it, and that I am able, in spite of all my acculturation, to let it be irrelevant that the coat was designed, tailored, and sold with a female market in mind, not a nearly 12-year-old boy). I

What if everything we make– Art– is because someone else, thousands of someones, placed their order?? What if nothing is made in a void,...

I’ve been thinking about my 11-year-old self a lot lately. As I planned my 37th birthday party, as she always does, 11-year-old Rose...