My husband made a roast chicken over the weekend. I had really been looking forward to it for a variety of reasons — I love it when we can eat dinner together as a family; chicken hadn’t been on sale for weeks and our freezer stash was long gone — but primarily because the last time he made a roast chicken and veggies, it was awesome. This time, he carefully researched how to keep the chicken extra-moist and brined it several days in advance.
Saturday night came. I was eager for my chicken. (I was also starving, since lunch was pizza and cake stolen from my toddler’s plate at a birthday party.) Continue reading
I recently read a book that I mostly love, a LOT, but also hate just a little bit. Well, it’s not so much that I hate it – it’s that I’m angry at it.
I love the book because it is so much like life – filled with the beauty and loss and childishness and inspiration and curiosity and awe that make up what we know of this world. I also hate the book because it is so much like life, with its unpredictability and lack of happily-ever-after promises, with its multi-dimensional characters who cannot be completely understood and the resulting loneliness and frustration.
I thought I knew how the book would end. It didn’t end that way, and I was sad and disappointed and, at first, so angry because I just didn’t want to accept the discrepancy between what I had really wanted to happen and what really did. Between my dreams for the book and its reality.
That’s happened to all of us, right? In our real, nonfiction lives? We’ve been disappointed by – and perhaps angry at – the discrepancy between our dreams and our reality? Continue reading