What’s on your plate?

“Eat something green or else your stomach will turn grey.” Continue reading


Won’t you be my neighbor?

My mom has a way of making any intersection of concrete car paths that surround wooden domiciles into a neighborhood. Every place we’ve lived, she’s drawn people from their homes and connected them with the other unknown hermits living next door. After these block parties, no longer were houses filled with faceless bodies, but with folks who shared holiday recipes and lawn care tips. Continue reading


Sitting in one of my kitchen drawers is an inch-high, red plastic cylinder that stands upon a white base about an inch and a half wide. On the top of this cylinder is a white, spring-loaded concave dome with a hole in the center. When this dome is pressed, a needle pokes above about a centimeter through the center hole.

My husband was first introduced to this item in an unfriendly way. Reaching into the drawer blindly for another item, he took hold of the object and pressed upon the top. “Ouch!” What medieval torture device was I hiding in the kitchen? Continue reading

What’s your motivation for doing chores?

I don’t like doing dishes.

Even as I write this, I have a pots and pans from dinner two nights ago still on the stove and a handful in the sink. (As much as I don’t like dishes, I like a filled sink even less. How can one clean the dishes when they are spilling over the confinements of the metal basin?)

This wasn’t necessarily always the case. As a young child Continue reading

Keys for any home

Hanging from a hook near my back door is an unremarkable house key given to me by my parents. Silver in color and attached to a fluorescent green keychain, this barely-used key has a few scratches on one side of the blade from where it has rubbed against the lock during its brief existence. It is not yet a year old, though what it signifies spans decades. Continue reading

When shouting sounds like angels singing

“You sound like angels.”

My grandmother spoke these words to my three sisters and I one Christmas morning when I was about seven. We weren’t singing Handel’s Messiah or even singing in key. We were screeching out various children’s Christmas songs in order to wake up our parents so that we might leave the shackles of our stairwell constraint and go open gifts in the family room. Continue reading