The only great thing about February, in addition of course to it being Black History Month, is that it is not January. For those of us in New England, January was cruel. Gray. Damp. Unfriendly. On the coast, where I live, we received sprinklings of snow that melted away with the following cold rain.
I chose him. The scrappy scruffy rescued rescue stole my writing week. And my heart.
Things done with love always matter.
Timing is everything. 2020 may be my year to indulge in fuzzy headedness.
…by the end of the summer, we had a balanced meal, heavy on the veggies. I lived the original farm to table.
Forget corned beef and “Danny Boy.” For me it’s brown bread and bodhrans. The first time I heard a bodhran (pronounced bow, like cow, run), I was a young teenager. My Aunt Mary […]