Since 2015 I have been approaching those December rituals with beginner’s mind, intense determination, and a bunch of crafting supplies.
I had a feeling that raising a teen might be less of a struggle than people were saying. And guess what? It’s even better than I imagined.
Tasked with making the desserts for a little girl’s first birthday party, I went with a lemon tart, matcha cookies, and one unorthodox little cake.
That satisfied look on Anker’s face is a lot like the one on mine as I present news of his recent success along with a neat little throwback.
My son’s birthdays measure both his age in years and my own evolution in motherhood, which continues to be a breathtaking, exciting experience.
Find out what happened after microbiologist Christon J. Hurst found a mother-and-child image he liked on the web and tracked down the photographer.
I bake to feed an elusive hunger in me that can only be sated by a diligent labor of love. The cakes, tarts, and cookies are a happy coincidence.
The end of one year has me taking stock of how I’ve been living. The first days of another bring me inspiration to invite what I desire.
My recent stay with Marta’s family made me want to write about the times we’ve shared. And then events shook the story in another direction.
A glimpse of white linen and periwinkle silk on an al fresco summer date inspires me to wonder why I am moved so deeply by this sight.
April elicits heavy memories while ushering in lighter days. (It turns out that three years into bereavement one is whole again.)
This year’s calendar combined the exuberance of gift giving with a controlled architectural streak. In other words it was perfect.
For this text-free post I’ve selected a dozen photos to tell the fragmented story of a whole season’s worth of simple pleasures.
What makes the Aegean adventure into what it is has to do with that tranquil turquise sea made for swimming, but that is not all.
A boy’s ninth birthday inspires contemplation of how this unlikely milestone marks not just the child’s life but motherhood, too.
Last week I had the honor of attending a UCONN Human Rights Institute conference in memory of my father. Here is what I had to say.
One of the ways I remember my father is through poems he loved and ones I wish we could have read together. Here is a handful.
A revisit can deepen one’s regard for a place and still let down expectations of better weather. The same can be said for photos.
Photos of boys of a certain age enjoying their winter break. Also, a glimpse into the origin of the phrase in the title.
A handful of photos documenting December wonders plus a brief confession about my experience of this year’s holiday season.
Photos and thoughts summing up my impression of Portugal: a place less “southern” than expected and bracingly unostentatious.
Longer than anything I’ve written since college, this essay is about a summer cabin and a daughter’s memories of her father.
Reflections on my father’s funeral and one remarkable photo taken 11 years, 11 months, and 11 days before the day he would die.
It turns out that having lice is not as bad as it seems—and reminiscing about the experience can be downright wonderful.
It’s unclear who had the bigger job this time around: the one forced to do the writing or the one forced to do the forcing.
Reflections on a tradition we adopted in 2015, which lights up the dark winter mornings with a steady uptake of jolly cheer.
My son, Anker, caught at the perfect juncture between playing in the sand and having decidedly outgrown the sandbox.
A moonshot of an observation inspired by a shot of the moon captured on the evening of my son Anker’s sixth birthday.
This dispatch is from our temporary quarters just two floors down from the construction site that will re-emerge as our home.
A city rooftop scene on a rainy day has inspired the first real professional collaboration between mother and son.
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Photos and thoughts summing up my impression of Portugal: a place less “southern” than expected and bracingly unostentatious.