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Hands of Love

A single gold wedding ring, dusty with organic whole wheat flour, and perfectly primed dough, is in the palm of one…

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Reconnecting to My Father Through Food

I began thinking about what I’d make for them the minute my father, in a noteworthy moment of accommodation, asked…

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Addie & Emma at Christmas

Twins: An Excerpt

Singular life is what other people possess, and I belonged, only ostensibly, to their club, the life I’ve lived a…

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(2013-04-09) - Oliver sleeping with Emma (3)

Colorblind

I had no idea what he’d look like. I only knew what I could find out with a wave of…

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An Edible Religion

What seems simple and common—inviting my boyfriend over for dinner—isn’t.  A year ago cooking for a man would mean a…

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Loving for Crumbs: An Anthology of Moving On

It was the most natural thing in the world, to be the woman to his man, to sweetly look on as he said to the bartender “she’ll have a Chimay,” a beer I hated, as he canceled my order of fries from behind my back.  I slipped into my role without argument: I was just following the script I’d been handed. 

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Drinking Diaries: Women Serve Their Stories Straight Up

But this—drinking—wasn’t me. I felt like I was cheating on myself. I hated the feel of the bottle in my hand, the glass on my lip, the taste of it, the way it felt going down. I hated it for being a vice. For being my mother’s vice. And in using it, I was letting my father down, the person whose very core character I knew I had within me. But, drink I did, for altogether different reasons than my mother did. I didn’t need it and didn’t care if I ever drank again. I did it because drinking was being young and single and cute. And for a moment, that’s what I wanted to be.

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Blended: Writers on the Stepfamily Experience

95 million adults have a step relationship, according to a 2011 report. That’s 95 million unexpected experiences; 95 million unique…

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