There’s nothing quite as gross as baby food. You know, the greenish glop in a jar that just doesn’t smell right. It did my heart good to read in this poem that Mom believed in babies eating real food, too, even sixtysomething years ago. The Roast Beef Baby We moved to Pennsylvaniawhen you were one, about.We slept three nights in a moteland ate our dinners out. Now other babies at your agewere eating out of jars:mushed and mashed and lumpy…
There is something so peaceful about watching the snow fall gently on a Christmas evening. But since today’s high temperature was 67, there’s no chance of yuletide snow-peeping this year. Instead, Gary, James, and I sat on the back deck and gathered around the fire pit, transfixed by the flames. We roasted hot dogs. We dined on fancier food earlier, and by nightfall a hot dog with relish and mustard just hit the spot. We even FaceTimed to Connecticut for…
Although most of my career was spent at the park (with the nickname Raven Maven), for a handful of years in the late ’80s I was known as The Big Cheese. When I told park peers that I’d formerly served as editor of Pizza Today magazine, I’m not sure they believed me. They’d give me that side-eye thing. With a grin and a shrug, I’d make a mental note to bring an issue in someday as proof. Like this one:…