Columns

It all began with little green apples. Aunt Eloise mailed Mom a letter saying the fruit was ready for canning applesauce. Mom loaded up the car with her Mason jars and our suitcases. Dad drove us south to the McCoy farm where we lived the first four years of my life....

When our youngest daughter claimed her independence, my husband gained her bathroom. He moved his health and beauty aids from our master-bedroom bath to the other, just nine easy steps away. Since I’d never known the benefits of my own bathroom, I first founded a...

Ruth called the third week in July. “Mom, I bought a puppy.” “I didn’t know you wanted a pet.” My youngest daughter lives in a house with more windows than timber. Enough to make a mother worry and suggest a dog might be a good idea for safety’s sake. But I held my...

These late September chrysanthemum days saturate my natural senses with the faculty of memory. While I separate laundry in the morning, the ruddy scent of football season recalls my dorm room on Central Michigan University’s campus. I know the rustle of autumn’s...

What happens when you whisk one cup simmering heavy whipping cream, one cup semi-sweet chocolate chips, one teaspoon vanilla extract, and two tablespoons butter together? Ganache! A no-fuss, no-fail recipe sure to raise eyebrows as a glaze, icing, or sauce. Fond of...

My computer sits marooned under our painter’s drop cloth. For the first time in my life as a journalist, I carry a recycled composition book and pen outside, and write. It feels good. How could it not when I’m overlooking sixty new lavender plants happily growing on a...

My grandmother taught me to love good food by her joy in growing it, cooking and serving it. During my childhood, Granny’s table was the safest and most delicious place in the world. My mother taught me the absolute bliss of birthday parties. Without fail she baked...

I awake before dawn to the roar of rolling thunder. After another dry spell, the heavens at last shake the house with the sound waves of kettledrums and cymbals. I smell the crescendo of rainfall before I hear its blessed tap-dance on the rooftop. My abused bones and...

I’ve followed the chain of letters to the editor in the Tri-City Times over the past few weeks between locals Miriam Marcus and David Naeyaert regarding the nature of racism here in Michigan. The two have thrown around a few points about racism, seemingly in...