Musings and Memoir

Long after I stopped believing in Santa, but was still a kid, there was a magical visitor to my suburban neighborhood that I looked forward to every Christmas. It was a caroling wagon:

I’m on a videoconference call at work when my cat suddenly jumps onto my desk, entering the frame seemingly from nowhere, superimposing his head or tail onto the graphic background I use

I wouldn’t mind being Ina Garten in my next life—a queen of simple, delicious cooking and entertaining whom Tina Fey suspects is only a figment of middle-aged women’s collective imagination.

I went to the river alone. I’d asked my kid if he wanted to come with, and he didn’t, which might have been the best outcome that day. I needed quiet.