Today I’m going to a Thanksgiving-themed Valentine’s Day lunch party. I emailed the host to make sure I had understood the concept correctly—Thanksgiving dinner? In February? Instead of Valentine’s Day? Yes, she replied, that was the tradition.
Go ahead and mentally insert a heart-eye emoji here, friends.
My contribution will be Derby Pie, a hallowed Allen family recipe. The pie, of course, turned out fine, now let’s see if it survives an hour long subway ride to Brooklyn…
When sex education fails to teach teens to think critically about sex, they will find other source material.
Poetry responds to Trump’s America.
I’m coming to terms with the mythologies of New York—sorting through them to find the truth.
Even Jimmy Buffett is not Jimmy Buffett.
These are the words men use to undermine women in the workplace.
Since I arrived, I haven’t stopped thinking about the role I will play in the inevitable gentrification of my neighborhood.
I didn’t even realize I was so hungry for this academic treatise on Wonder Woman.
Reading 100 Years of Solitude as a Southern manifesto.
Is podcasting the new soft diplomacy?
I love the bawdiness of David Chang, so I’m here for his new food show.
There are only two people in the world who have made me question my stance on wanting kids. Surprisingly, David Letterman is one of them. Hearing him wax poetic about fatherhood in his recent conversation with George Clooney made my ovaries hurt…just a little.
I put on Breakfast at Tiffany’s the other night and suddenly learned I had never actually seen how it ends. I thought it ended with her running away and Fred/Paul going upstairs to find an empty apartment. She will not be contained by the men in her life! Turns out, it doesn’t end like that at all.
I think I liked my ending better.