By Phibby Venable All my mother’s words live around here,and I am always placing them in whatever orderI can remember.They hold the door open each morning, and suggestI have a better gratitude and attitude,for being aliveI stretch my eyes all over the sky, I lean upand look over the mountainsMy…
by Lauren Leigh Powell I don’t know why my father hated dandelions so much. My Aunt Edna told me once that it was a “man thing.” That somehow all men, when they are the steward of their own yard, become convinced that the bright sprinkling of yellow is a punishment…
by Olaf Kroneman I feed the starving. I feed the dying. I’m no Mother Teresa, but the act of feeding the unfortunates who can’t eat appeals to me. How could you not like the person who feeds you? You don’t bite the hand. I feed people, patients, whose stomachs are…
by Stuart Gunter We’re putting the world into our bodies. Food becomes who you are. – Rene Redzepi Every bite, every morsel becomes us, Mount Ararat into our mouths, our mother’s family tree our breakfast. The time we hiked into the Grand Canyon, laid claim to the first wet kiss…
by Sheila Rose Montgomery I swallowed them whole. I dipped them in the gravy. I pulled out the mushrooms. He was driving the other woman around town. He knocked her up in six months. He was seen buying baby clothes in the mall. He stopped calling me. I cut the…