Our Roots Are Deep with Passion
“The ancient roots of the garlic bulb and the ever-unfurling roots of my family tree are so intertwined they’re impossible to separate. Grounded in the past and stretching into the future, these roots are braided together in solidarity, keeping the branches of identity alive and intact.” (PDF…)
“The fall happened on a Sunday night. She remembered climbing the sagging stairs of her weary Long Island Victorian-by-the-sea, clinging to the smooth oak banister for support. At the landing she toppled face forward. The thread-worn carpet scratched her cheeks, drawing blood. Using her elbows, she dragged her ninety-eight-year-old body into the bedroom, where her hands, their skin mottled and slack, though crowned with lustrous fingernails, flailed for the phone on the nightstand. All she could grasp was a half-empty vial of Tic Tacs, her only nourishment for the next thirty three hours until Lisa, her cleaning lady, found her and called an ambulance. ” (more…)
Playing the girl or Boy Guessing Game
“In a treatment room at the Anushka Day Spa in New York City, I lie on a massage table, my pregnant belly spread out like a mound of rising dough. I’m waiting for Nanetta, a Romanian cosmetologist. Until recently, my physique had always been boyish – lean lanky and flat chested. But now that nature has taken over, I’ve developed new curves and new padding. To my surprise, these changes are not at all unpleasant. I enjoy imagining myself a Rubens’ nude – a classic beauty with flesh defined by soft lines, not the sharp angles of a rippled stomach. ” (PDF)
Art Attack | Brain, Child Magazine
“I’m going to be an artist when I grow up,” declared my 4-year-old daughter Zoe. We were at the kitchen table admiring her latest painting: a swirl of twinkling sky, inspired by Vincent van Gogh’s The Starry Night. (Her preschool class had just read a book about the artist.)”
Published in Women Who Eat
“A young Woman and a young man sit side by side on the edge of a rocky cliff. The sun has begun its descent, slipping behind distant mountain peaks, coloring the sky with ribbons of pink, purple and gold. The woman cups the man’s face in her hands, drawing him close. She takes her fingers and places something soft and creamy on his tongue. This eyes widen, but, before he can speak, the young woman presses her fingers against his lips.
“Its’ Montrachet – a goat cheese from France,” she says.