Oh, this old house. A good place to peel potatoes or butter a turkey. If the water is running, you can’t hear the TV.
Why are we on Santa Monica Beach? First of all, the place is a poem -- I’ve written sonnets to it before.
“Jesus is risen!” as they say in church, and I’m still stuck down here with a hundred gophers, in the little house that used to be a Wienerschnitzel.
Easter is voile dresses and flowers in the kids’ hair. This year, it's also these amazing Ukrainian eggs.
This creature … this scion…this legacy. Miss him so much his very first Easter away.
I’ll hug my son just a tad too long. To me, he’s that great book you just finished and can’t bring yourself to put down.
Technically, this rum we were drinking was moonshine, and though most rum has a tint, a tan, a sort of teaky Caribbean lacquer, this one did not.
So I began to load my little appetizer plate. One shrimp, two shrimp, three shrimp, four…
This doggy doodle incident shows is that if authorities turn a blind eye to misbehavior and ridicule, that misbehavior and ridicule are bound to flourish.
Roberto at the farmers market tells me how the nurseries that supply him are giving up on flowers and growing cannabis instead.