There are no roses in Palm Springs. At least, none that we saw. So if we couldn’t stop and smell those, there was only one thing left to do: – We had to pause and contemplate the cacti. (Note: Rand is growing out his facial hair and having way too much fun doing it.)
– Joshua Tree National Park is about a 90 minute drive from Palm Springs, which is totally fine is you are over the age of 2, but kind of a bummer if you aren’t. And one of us wasn’t. –
This is a cherimoya: – This is NOT how you eat a cherimoya: –
(No, wait. Nevermind. We totally don’t.) – Despite being thirty-cough-cough-hack, Rand and I live our lives like we are perpetually in our twenties. We stay up late, we sleep in, we make cookies at 10pm and watch cartoons while they bake, our home gradually smelling more and more like vanilla. Actually, I don’t think people in…
I’ve been hesitating to write this post. I don’t want to throw gasoline on a fire, and if all of this is some sort of weird or sick hoax, I don’t want people to know that it got to me. But I’m angry, and creeped out, and I figure that if I write about…
We’re back in grey Seattle, and plan to be for the next few weeks. It’s kind of great to be home. It’s chilly and wonderful here (perfect weather for making soup and cookies and puddings). Plus, the Seahawks are in the playoffs. I considered casting all sorts of gentle hexes on the Saints (I don’t…
– I know, I know. I already recapped 2013 with a bunch of nauseating photos of me and my husband, making out in various locations around the world. And many of you clicked through it, and managed to contain the contents of your stomach, and for that, you should be commended.
– Dear Rand, By now, you have probably noticed that the milk in the fridge has been dyed pink. You are probably wondering why I did this. My motivation for that act (and so many countless others) is simple: I wanted to mess with you, dearest. Because you had it coming. Especially after what happened…
This post was almost about macaronuts (which is, for those of you who are unfamiliar, a French macaron that is batter dipped and fried, like a doughnut. I whispered sweet nothings at it while eating it, like a praying mantis to her mate. But something slightly more interesting happened just today (if such a thing…
Tales of Food, Feminism, and Fury
by Geraldine DeRuiter
Paperback Available March 11th
Also available in hardcover, e-book, and audiobook from these booksellers:
