These Gestures
October 11, 2011 in families
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by Vaquero
by Rosie Cheeks
Maternal Superpowers
August 29, 2011 in families
You might recall my reminiscing about Saturday Mornings with my mother: our weekly ritual wherein she would don her sequined cape and disco-pied-piper my sister and I into spit-shining the whole apartment from top to bottom. This was all well and good when I was ten, but today, my mother’s impending arrival after a two-year hiatus is downright paralyzing. I have torn apart every room in the house, painted and rearranged furniture. The place is literally upside-down. Why do I do this to myself, you might ask. Good question. Read the rest of this entry →
Taming of the Sow: A Story About a Father and Son
June 19, 2011 in families, Fiction
When I was eleven-years-old, my next-door neighbor Juan—a Cuban immigrant who had fled Castro in 1961—invited me to a pig roast for his oldest boy’s thirteenth birthday. Prior to that, pizza was about the most ethnic meal I had ever tasted, but that day I fell in love not only with that sweet, crispy pork, but also with the entire ritual—at least the part that I had seen in my neighbor’s back yard, which was basically spitting the pig and roasting it over a fire. Read the rest of this entry →
by The Pish
Climbing Trees
May 29, 2011 in families
Sunday is a very important day in my family. It entails going to my mother’s house, sitting around a table and eating enough food to feed a small country—like Tuvalu. It’s been an Italian tradition for some time so I can’t argue against it. Last Sunday, I had just finished up the first course, which is a large bowl of pasta and meatballs, with a salad. (Yes, I know; it doesn’t make sense to me either.) Anyway on this particular night, round one was finished so I decided to walk outside and loosen my pants in anticipation for the next course, which happened to be a large plate of ham. Read the rest of this entry →
On Colony Collapse Disorder In The Home
July 8, 2010 in families
I’ve noticed the death of the bees, myself. My porches always seem to be the temples of bee sacrifice. I’ll find one tiny carcass, dead, a captured worker from another hive, eviscerated on my doorstep with the tiniest knife you’ve ever seen (exquisitely carved of a stinger), an offering to the Pollen God. May the harvest be good this season! Bzzzz!
