Sitting in my office with lovely old Atlas Cedar standing in steadfast loyalty outside my window, my heart is full of gratitude. For the friends with whom I shared an exquisite meal on Thanksgiving. For the great bird and all the plants that gave of themselves to create our feast. For the farmers who tended their flocks and crops. For the
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Serenely going about my cooking business last night when husband piped up to alert me about the latest travesty. “Get this, they plan to lift the ban on importing elephant ‘trophies,’ ” he said. I confess that I prayed for a good solid minute that elephants in Africa had joined a bowling league. Not even in
Let me get this straight.
We have president-elect who thinks climate change is a non-existent hoax?
A ardent climate-change skeptic to oversee the EPA transition?
I can’t even.
I now have a burning desire to go out and turn that overloaded, stinking compost bin. More than willing to sacrifice more fingernails.
And I’m betting that recent cursing record will not
…I spy a pantry moth staring at me from the ceiling of the cereal cabinet, and I erupt. “This can’t be happening! I did EVERYTHING! By the effing book!” I pound the counter until I catch the worried look on my husband’s face.
I lost four (or maybe ten) days last week, after my daughter insisted that something be done about the pantry moth invasion that I’d been ignoring. I rolled up my sleeves and emptied every cabinet containing food
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I cut the crusts from my daughter’s sandwich, basking in the glow of attentive motherhood, as well as the the eco-righteous satisfaction of being a composter. The nutrition in the crusts of this organic, 100% whole-grain bread baked by artisans paid a living wage, shall not be wasted. These crusts will feed the critters in my compost bin who shall