Sunday Sessions

Mishmash

My birthday was a few weeks ago and I’ve been sitting on writing a This is 35 post, mostly because I was still trying to figure out what 35 will be. I think I’m almost there, but not today.

Looks like I’ll be unexpectedly heading down to DC next week weekend with no absolutely no plans except maybe a morning ride around the tidal basin. If my DC friends find themselves in town next weekend, how about we say hello?

We just got word that our landlord plans to sell our apartment. While our lease technically runs through July, in New York a new owner can give tenants 60 days notice, which means it is possible we will need to move soon. I can’t really imagine life in New York without our windows looking down on the neighborhood…

 

David’s birthday was the week before last and he, of good heart and kind spirit, spent the day activated in support of Hurricane Dorian. So, this weekend became his birthday weekend instead:We got up early and had breakfast at his favorite coffee shop (Starbucks…which you know pains me) and went on a long bike ride along the waterfront. Then he had his first sailing lesson on the Hudson and afterward we ate oysters together at Chelsea market.

We’ve been together for 11 years—married for 7—and I am so privileged to spend my days with him.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

To Read

“For the first time in human history there are now more people over 65 than under 5—all thanks to a combination of increasing longevity, diminished fertility, and an aging Baby Boom cohort. We’ve watched these trends develop for generations; demographers can chart them decades in advance.

And yet we’re utterly unprepared for the consequences.”

Old age is made up—and this concept is hurting everyone, Technology Review

“When the kids do badly with exams or something, I want them to know that in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter. Life’s that big.” She smiles and gives me a warm, bashful look. “I just want to try to keep them buoyant and happy. And seeing life as—potentially—beautiful,” she says.

Crown Jewel: How Olivia Colman Is Reinventing Superstardom, Vogue

“What you won’t find are listed prices. That’s because the rule at Drexell & Honeybee’s is “everybody eats.” When diners are done with their meal, they put whatever money they can — or not a single cent — in a box by the door.”

The Difference Between Happiness and Joy, Bitter Southerner

To Watch

We finally were in a mood to watch Book Smart this weekend and it was a lot of fun.

A video course of sorts, Endings: The Good, Bad, and Insanely Great, is a masterclass on creating screenplays from the writer of Little Miss Sunshine.

To Eat

The New York Times has a beautiful series on how to make rice of every style and flavor.

Baked figs are so beautiful and jammy—this fig and mascarpone cake looks just fine. And this plum crepe cake is swoon-worthy too.

Most of the “fish” in my house growing up came in the form of fishsticks, so I have every kind of fear of making seafood at home. This pasta with mussels, tomatoes and fried capers might make it worth getting over that fear.

Crispy sesame tofu, ftw. Tofu with peanut ginger sauce, ftw.

This guide on how to make southern biscuits is a must have for anyone who plans to make biscuits and gravy their Sunday staple this winter.

This is either amazing or terrible: Broccoli Cheddar Cobbler

Usually a list of healthy breakfast ideas equals a bunch of green smoothies, but here’s a list of “healthy” breakfast ideas I’d actually like to eat.

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Sunday Sessions

Summer for a Little Longer

If you haven’t heard from me for a few weeks, it’s because I’ve been trying to squeeze in every last bit of summer. There is the big stuff: Camping. Six Flags. My 35th birthday. Our friend’s wedding in California. But there is also the little moments in-between: long walks around SoHo. Ice cream. Late night dinner and wine with friends.

And of course, I still feel the need to add new experiences to my New York-like-a-local list, so on Friday, I sat on the Lincoln Center Plaza with hundreds of other people and watched my first opera, Puccini’s La Fanciulla del West. On Saturday, I grabbed a blanket and a book and read for a few hours on the Great Lawn in Central Park.

I know fall is almost here. Even as I’m typing this, it’s gray and raining and just a little bit cool. But for now there are still peaches and campfires and the bingo players in the park across the street, just for a little longer.

To Read

Longer Reads

I’m juggling a few books right now. Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway. Jia Tolintino’s Trick Mirror. Taffy Brodesser-Akner’s Fleishman is in Trouble. Cal Newport’s Digital Minimalism.

To Watch

Do we agree, that with the exception of The Farewell, this summer was actually a pretty shit movie season? Looks like fall is about to make up for it.

I watched the first two free episodes of On Becoming a God in Central Florida and continue to shout about what an underrated actress Kirsten Dunst remains (have you SEEN her Fargo season yet?)

To Eat

I’m on a lemon kick right now since it’s about the only way I know how to hold on to the sharpness of summer. And I visited one of my favorite New York spots The Wild Son this week and really have to figure out what it is that makes their farro is the actual best.

A lot of nights of the week you’ll find me eating basic pasta with oil and cheese. Maybe I throw in some pepper to make a quick cacio e pepe. But lemon? That sounds like a fine idea too.

Green goddess bowls seem like a good way to round out summer.

Do I want to make this peanut-pretzel ice cream cake? Yes, yes, I do.

Beautiful and easy salmon. Weeknight dinner of my dreams. Maybe make the coconut rice as suggested in the comments?
Click to the second tweet to get Hrishikesh Hirway’s spicy dark chocolate pistachio cookies.

Have we talked about these Garlicky Peanut Butter Cold Noodles yet?

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Sunday Sessions

Scene

SCENE

EXT. UPPER WEST SIDE – NIGHT

It’s Saturday night and the sidewalks are crowded with people milling between shops—going to a late dinner, joining friends at a bar, rushing the kids home for bedtime. SHE and HE inspect the neon lights of every storefront and restaurant, gauging whether their popularity is a indicator of quality or just availability. With their desire to take in every sight, they could be tourists, but they are indeed locals. They balance cold ice cream cones in one hand. They clasp hands with the other.

SHE
Why do you build me up (build me up) buttercup, baby
HE
Just to let me down (let me down) and mess me around?
SHE
And then worst of all (worst of all) you never call, baby
When you say you will (say you will)
HE
But I love you still.
I need you!
SHE
I need you!
More than anyone, darlin’
BOTH
You know that I have from the start
So build me up (build me up) buttercup, don’t break my heart!

(END)

To Read

“Technology, in fact, has made us less than oppositional: where beauty is concerned, we have deployed technology not only to meet the demands of the system but to actually expand these demands. The realm of what is possible for women has been exponentially expanding in all beauty-related capacities – think of the extended Kardashian experiments in body modification, or the young models whose plastic surgeons have given them entirely new faces – and remained stagnant in many other ways. We have not “optimized” our wages, our childcare system, our political representation; we still hardly even think of parity as realistic in those arenas, let alone anything approaching perfection. We have maximized our capacity as market assets. That’s all.”

Athleisure, barre and kale: the tyranny of the ideal woman

The Inman 300: They tout it as the world’s first urban thru-hiking trail, linking more than 340 public staircases over some 220 miles in Los Angeles. They found that hiking in the city had many of the same appeals as trekking the backcountry, including physical exertion and elevation gain, wildlife sightings, navigational challenges, even solitude.

Why You Should Thru-Hike Your City

To Watch

Every few months I go down The Nerdwriter rabbit hole on YouTube. I’ve seen all of the Harry Potter movies dozens of times—I often put it on in the background while I’m working—and for reasons I’m not sure I’ve understood myself, I also agree that Prisoner of Azkaban in the best of all the films.

Queer Eye is somewhere up there with the Great British Bake-off in its ability to make you feel good about humans. Looking forward to checking out this Ursula K. Le Guin series on PBS. If you need something totally mindless, Derry Girls (on Netflix) is cute.

To Eat

I thought I’d make French macarons for a co-worker’s birthday. A friend had declared them “so easy.” Rest assured: they were not. I threw away nearly a dozen eggs before realizing I would be buying macarons for my co-worker. In the end, I did finish one complete batch—but not enough to celebrate a birthday properly.

In between waits for my eggs to reach room temperature, I made this classic plum tort again. Delightful with coffee. Delightful as dessert.

Not every one is a hit, but I like seeing what’s happening in Eric Kim’s Table for One series.

A Poem

On a Saturday

When you write something
you want it to live—
you have that obligation, to give it
a start in life.
Virginia Woolf, pockets full of stones,
sinks into the sad river
that surrounds us daily. Everything
about London amazed her, the shapes
and sight, the conversations on a bus.
At the end of her life, she said
London is my patriotism.
I feel that about New York.
Would Frank O’Hara say Virginia Woolf,
get up? No, but images from her novels
stay in my head—the old poet
(Swinburne, I suppose) sits on the lawn
of the country house, mumbling
into the sun. Pleased with the images,
I won’t let the chaos of my life
overwhelm me. There is the City,
and the sun blazes on Central Park
in September. These people on a Sunday
are beautiful, various. And the poor
among them make me think
the experience I knew will be relived again,
so that my sentences will keep hold
of reality, for a while at least.

Harvey Shapiro

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Sunday Sessions

Heat Wave

I could complain about the unbearable heat wave we’re all pushing through right now, but I won’t. The thing that scares me most is how frequent and likely these days are going to be moving forward—a new normal. Last month, our air conditioning bill for a 600 sq ft apartment was $146. This is with me leaving only one of our two units on during the week, and turning them up while I’m away (I tried to turn them off completely during the day, but our food was spoiling and our plants were dying).

Yesterday we stayed inside, but were surprised that all of our neighbors seemed to have been turned out of their buildings en masse. Lawn chairs and tents were set up in the park across the street. The fire hydrant caps were broken and water spewed powerfully. They stayed out all day, and only went inside when it started to rain.

Today, we finally ventured outside with a reward in mind. We met up with my friend John—an ice cream expert—to sample the offerings at an ice cream festival on the Upper West Side. John tried no fewer than 5—FIVE—ice creams, while David and I managed two each. Even with cold, flavorful treats, we sweated right through our clothes.

I realize it’s nihilistic, but sometimes I think our eventual extinction seems like a pretty fair price to pay for what we’ve done to the planet in the name of progress. A hot day seems like the least of our eventual worries.

To Read

“DoorDash offers a guaranteed minimum for each job. For my first order, the guarantee was $6.85 and the customer, a woman in Boerum Hill who answered the door in a colorful bathrobe, tipped $3 via the app. But I still received only $6.85.

Here’s how it works: If the woman in the bathrobe had tipped zero, DoorDash would have paid me the whole $6.85. Because she tipped $3, DoorDash kicked in only $3.85. She was saving DoorDash $3, not tipping me.”

My Frantic Life as a Cab-Dodging, Tip-Chasing Food App Deliveryman, New York Times

First, of all, who are all of these trash people not tipping their delivery people? Second, this is not a sustainable system of human labor. I try not to use delivery services like these, and when there is no alternative, I tip well—very well. If something looks too good to be true, it’s probably because it is. Having food, groceries, and whatever else delivered to your door quickly, safely, and cheaply, is definitely too good to be true.

“Cities have effectively traded away their children, swapping capital for kids. College graduates descend into cities, inhale fast-casual meals, emit the fumes of overwork, get washed, and bounce to smaller cities or the suburbs by the time their kids are old enough to spell.

The modern American city is not a microcosm of life but a microslice of it. It’s becoming an Epcot theme park for childless affluence, where the rich can act like kids without having to actually see any.”

The Future of the City Is Childless, Citylab

There is a lot to unpack with this piece. As a currently childless person, it felt like there was a pretty substantial bias here, but what the piece ultimately seeks to map out is that the problem of childless cities is one of equity.

Longer Reads

I’ve been on a streak of abandoning books recently—which isn’t usually my style—but life is too short, eh?

What went into the abandoned pile? My Wife in the Psych Ward (needed a better editor), and A Walk Through Paris (probably a great read for someone more intimately acquainted with the city).

One book I can’t put down is the August selection for the WNYC book club, A Gentleman in Moscow. Frankly, I wasn’t sure how they were going to keep my attention for 462 pages when the protagonist is not allowed to leave the hotel, but then I remembered loving another story set entirely in a hotel and decided to give it a chance.

To Watch

David and I have started a new tradition—or rather, I should say I’ve let David in on an old tradition—which is morning movies at the nearby theater. I love going to the first show of the day, just after my morning coffee and eggs; there tends to be a more diverse audience of ardent movie goers, the tickets are cheaper (a movie ticket in New York currently averages $17 for an evening showing), and I’m less likely to go-to-town on Junior Mints and popcorn.

This weekend we saw The Farewell. About 25 minutes in, I was openly weeping (i.e. sobbing), and the rest of the film didn’t let up either. I left the theater with makeup streaked tear stains. Run to see this movie.

Grantchester is back and they’re replacing the lovely James Norton (no surprise, that star was on the rise after Happy Valley) with a new “hot priest.” And frankly I was offended: You can’t just replace a well-loved character of 4 seasons with a new hot version with just ONE episode as a transition. But reader: They did. And I am as shallow as they guessed, because while hot priest will never be as good as James Norton, he is still infinitely watchable.

Haven’t watched Happy Valley, you say? Go rectify that immediately.

To Eat

Last weekend I visited Tail Up Goat, with my friend Jenna, for the first time in awhile. They have a Michelin star now, but that hasn’t seemed to change them much. For summertime, they have an entire wine list dedicated to Riesling, a wine that, frankly, I had always found to be over-sweet. I decided to trust in the very knowledgeable bartender and ended up with the 2010 “Würtzberg” from Weingut Würtzberg in Saar, Germany, a bright, tart, almost cider-like experience. I can’t wait to go back soon.

When I’m not getting my fill of peaches, berries, and plums, a riff on this spicy peanut noodle dish has been a good summertime fix. I used this sauce, but then added baked tofu, steamed broccoli, and edamame to the dish. The prep takes a little time (baking the tofu, steaming the broccoli), but once those are done, this dish whips up quickly and was something I ate all week long.

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Sunday Sessions

Come to the woods, for here is rest.

Summertime is my glory and I am doing everything possible to spend all of these moments outside. Bike rides. Long walks. Trips to the public pool. A half day at the New York Botanical Garden. Give me the heat wave and humidity—they don’t touch me.

Last weekend, we visited my brother- and sister- in-law and decided to rent a speedboat. We spent hours on a Pennsylvania lake, tossing each other around the water on an inflatable tube attached to the back. I squealed like a kid, and I can’t remember the last time since I felt such a giddy rush of fun.

We have declared this our summer of camping, which isn’t quite as easy as it sounds without a car. Earlier this spring we joined those same siblings for a frigid camping adventure in Bar Harbor, Maine, and more recently, we setup shop at a campsite in the Catskills based on its proximity to an Instagram-worthy diner. We have plans to sleep under the stars at least a few more times this summer, which makes me a little homesick for my Blue Ridge mountains.

To make camping an easier and more spontaneous activity, we’ve managed to box up most of our gear into one plastic tub, and it is cross-checked before each trip with an easy-to-use spreadsheet. On our return, we assess what we used and what we wished we’d had, and adjust the pack accordingly. On our last trip, we went from arrival to full-setup of our campsite (including a roaring fire!) in about 20 minutes.

Here’s hoping you’re sitting around a campfire soon.

To Read

A profile on the fascinating artwork of Olafur Eliasson.

More than 50 years after her death, Sylvia Plath’s uncensored letters have been released. Turns out she was quite a cinephile.

Women are here to crash your pool party.

Some vignettes.

Hemingway always seemed like a fucker, but at least we now learn he was capable of remorse.

The Washington Post has suggested a book for every age—from 1 to 100.

The World Health Organization has designated urban noise a serious environmental stressor and public health risk. A new app is helping urbanites find the quiet.

Hillbillies need no elegy.

To Watch

I was waiting for a few books to come in at the library and thought putting on old episodes of Dawson’s Creek in the background would be a fun way to relive my adolescence. Uh. I got addicted to the drama and am now on season 4 of the Joey, Pacey, Dawson triangle. Beware.

Looking forward to checking out Shoplifters on Hulu this week. And despite the fact that the acting has not aged particularly well, I found Maurice to be a gem (RIP Kanopy).

To Eat

It’s been more than a decade since Starbucks was part of my coffee habit. These days I use the French press at home with rotating beans, or make my way to local coffee shops around the city to enjoy a (mostly) black cup of coffee or iced espresso. But sometimes you find yourself in a Starbucks, and when you do, you know better than to order the over-roasted bitter coffee. Instead, splurge on their new skinny iced mocha cloud macchiato. It is, of course, terrible for you, and it does contain, weirdly enough, egg whites, but it is a dreamy concoction of not-really-coffee only made possible by the fast food of the coffee world.

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21st Century Woman

Vignettes

I am convinced there is a psychopath in my neighborhood. About once a week, I stumble on the body of a bird or mouse, in the middle of the sidewalk in front of the same building.

This is not a bird that has flown into a window, or rat that has eaten poison, these are bodies left there, usually smashed.

And when it’s not a full bird, it’s the wings of a bird, its bony protrusions exposed.


I’ve started wearing earplugs on the train.

One of first things I noticed when I moved to New York was the almost unbearable cacophony of the subways. Prolonged exposure seemed impossible, and forget headphones—to hear anything over the sound of squeals and the stops and the breaks meant listening at full volume.

So, the earplugs.

Overtime, I’ve come to appreciate and even depend on the earplugs. If I happen to have a book or magazine to read, I find myself more deeply invested in the story when my earplugs are in. And overall, it decreases my interest in being on my phone—the rare chance to turn down both the physical and emotional noise. Kids are fascinated by them and often point them out to their parents.

Sometimes I miss the anonymous chatter of my fellow passengers, but mostly I don’t.


The other day I had my earplugs in and had zoned out in such a way as to have achieved a sort of commuter zen—not oblivious enough to miss your stop, but impervious to the usual indignities of the ride.

With a sort of semi-consciousness, I realized a woman, a panhandler begging for change, had gotten on my car. This is not unusual, especially during the morning commute, and I admit, a little callously, to often reviewing their appeals for rhetorical effect.

But today the earplugs were in and I could not hear her tale, so I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing.

A moment later, I began to feel the people on either side of me twitch. I opened my eyes to see them covering their noses, their faces green.

And that’s when it hit me—the potent smell of urine.

I looked toward the woman making her way down the train car. The seat of her pants were stained and wet—today’s situation was not a recent or first phenomenon.

The smell was overwhelming. I started to gag and tried to push against the reflex, which felt somehow disrespectful. I watched others trying to do the same—to discreetly cover their nose and their mouth. Others had fewer concerns about propriety and opened the door to the next train car to seek out fresher air.

But most of us just sat still, collectively begging for the next train station to appear so we could have options.

And then the train came to a stop. Held between stations. They would let us know when we had been given the signal to proceed.

And then the desire for propriety ended. Gag reflexes do not have manners.

People pushed to get away from the woman, who was still on the car, asking for spare change. And they breathed into shirts or hands or scarves—anything to filter the smell.

It seemed we were on the verge of panic when the train lurched forward again and people paused to decide whether they could hold out for the station.

Never has a train pulled in more slowly to its destination.

And how funny we must have looked spewing from the car, gasping for air.

I looked down the platform to see the woman moving to the next car, counting her change.


Walking down the streets on July 4th. Every 10-15 steps there is another family with another grill. Chairs. Bottles. Kids with sidewalk chalk. A worn set of dominoes. Uno cards.

And a boombox.

Every 10-15 steps, a new song. Always in Spanish. A strange, urban orchestra both at odds and completely in sync.


We go up to the roof hoping to catch the fireworks—the big ones, down by the Brooklyn Bridge. But even from our vantage point, on top of a building, on top of a hill, the fireworks sit too low, too close to the waterfront over 8 miles away.

Before we can turn away, other fireworks begin to spring up all around us. Over there in Inwood. And across the Hudson in Jersey too. And at 125th. And now two streets over at 134th. And is that Central Park?

There are so close they feel like stars are falling on us.

Pink and gold and green and blue.

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Sunday Sessions

Again and Again and Again

Feet in the sand at Virginia Beach

It’s been a very cool summer so far and that has made it easy to fall in love with New York just a little bit. Walking through Greenwich Village—alive with pride flags. Going to see Oklahoma! with a friend. Replacing our DC night coffee walks with New York ice cream walks. Seeing Much Ado About Nothing in Central Park. Finding an empty swing and going higher and higher and higher until I’m laughing madly like a child. Coffee with old friends. Coffee with new friends. A good yoga stretch while the sunlight (and sounds from the busy street below) pour in. Starting to build a shortlist of favorite places you want to visit again and again and again.

And this summer we’re taking care to spend time outside the city as well—an afternoon on a Virginia beach, camping in Maine, camping in the Catskills, a road trip to a particular diner—I need the trees and the dirt to feel whole again.

I’m hoping to make my way down to DC soon. I miss my friends, some I haven’t seen a year or more. And it isn’t summer until I visit the stalls at the Dupont Farmer’s Market and have my morning cup of coffee at Open City.

Until then, I’m reading and writing and watching the sky scrapers go up and up all around.

To Read

“To face a future of sexual irrelevance—and often disgust—is the surface experience of menopause; the more profound experience is to approach oblivion and endure its education.”

Where Are All the Books on Menopause

Also:

Longer Reads

This week I finished Transit, another book in the Rachel Cusk trilogy. I’ve been moved by the series and Cusk’s use of language. If you enjoyed Ferrante, add Cusk to your list as well.

Also this week: Educated

To Watch

The 10-minute short film Rachel will leave you with goosebumps.

An interactive Pride walking tour of New York City.

Also this week: Woman at War

To Eat

We don’t host much here in New York for a few reasons. First, we (read: I) still miss our DC friends terribly. Second, we live uptown, quite a ways from where most people live in Brooklyn. But we’ve invited some pals over a few weekends from now to hang out on our back patio and that means I’m already thinking about the meal. Should we go traditional and have hamburgers and hot dogs or try something new like this Korean grilled steak and spicy chickpea and cheese stuffed zucchini? Where does one stand on pasta salad? One thing is for sure: there will be blender lemon pie (or maybe this no-fuss lemon tart?).

Also:

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Sunday Sessions

Few words, more links.

It’s been a fuzzy week, friends, and I don’t have much to say. Let’s get to the reads.

To Read

The Toilet Study

A comparison of what men write on bathroom walls versus women.

He Trots the Air (Outside Magazine)

Bring the tissues for this one.

On the Joys of Binge-Reading (New York Times)

“Because the mind — for all its endless rationalizations and solemn prohibitions — is in fact a ceaseless pleasure hound. And pleasure is, after all — once I scrape away the layers of self-image and pretentiousness — the reason that I read.”

Other Reads

To Listen

To Eat

This summer, I’m all about easy ice-box style pies. Blender Lemon Pie? Yes, please. Strawberry Yogurt Pie? Let me at it.

Our very favorite brunch spot in New York closed. These 50 Brunch Recipes will ease our woes.

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Sunday Sessions

A Very Good Post

From Kurt Vonnegut:

“I work at home, and if I wanted to, I could have a computer right by my bed, and I’d never have to leave it. But I use a typewriter, and afterward I mark up the pages with a pencil. Then I call up this woman named Carol out in Woodstock and say, “Are you still doing typing?” Sure she is, and her husband is trying to track bluebirds out there and not having much luck, and so we chitchat back and forth, and I say, “Okay, I’ll send you the pages.”

Then I go down the steps and my wife calls, “Where are you going?” “Well,” I say, “I’m going to buy an envelope.” And she says, “You’re not a poor man. Why don’t you buy a thousand envelopes? They’ll deliver them, and you can put them in the closet.” And I say, “Hush.”

So I go to this newsstand across the street where they sell magazines and lottery tickets and stationery. I have to get in line because there are people buying candy and all that sort of thing, and I talk to them. The woman behind the counter has a jewel between her eyes, and when it’s my turn, I ask her if there have been any big winners lately.

I get my envelope and seal it up and go to the postal convenience center down the block at the corner of Forty-seventh Street and Second Avenue, where I’m secretly in love with the woman behind the counter. I keep absolutely poker-faced; I never let her know how I feel about her. One time I had my pocket picked in there and got to meet a cop and tell him about it.

Anyway, I address the envelope to Carol in Woodstock. I stamp the envelope and mail it in a mailbox in front of the post office, and I go home.

And I’ve had a hell of a good time. I tell you, we are here on Earth to fart around, and don’t let anybody tell you any different.”

To Read

My friend Matt has a wonderful newsletter, Suspension Solution, that comes out three times a week. He reviews beer, and new music, and on Fridays he has a free-form letter, usually about his family. I couldn’t help but laugh at this week’s post.

Longer Reads

I’ve been on a bit of a streak and finished Free Food for Millionaires, Radium Girls, Heartland, and am rounding the bend on The Underground Railroad. Next up: Priestdaddy.

To Eat

  • If you can’t make a full carrot cake, these carrot bites seem like a pretty good alternative (Minimalist Baker)
  • I’m a little bit nervous about how comfortable I’ve become with visiting the Mexican restaurant down the block for a quick dinner. The food isn’t particularly good and I know they are suspicious of this gringa who asks to skip the meat on her tostadas. These Spiced Chickpea Tacos with Avocado Cream might do the trick. (A Couple Cooks)
  • Say yes to more wilty salads. (TASTE)

Finally…

It’s my mom’s birthday today—she of the great, full-body hugs. If you are lucky enough to know her, send her some love today.

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21st Century Woman

A Change of Location

Like many of you, I’m spending less time on Facebook these days. That means I’ll eventually stop sharing updates about about these posts on my Facebook page too. If you want to continue reading what I write here, you can sign up to receive the latest posts by email below, or add this blog to your favorite RSS reader.



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