I Love You by Remembering What You Hate: A Recipe for Herby Salad
I find joy in being let into the idiosyncrasies of someone’s taste.
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My sister is not my best friend. She is my sister. Those are fundamentally different relationships.
What a gift it is to be asked to feed a person, but what a further gift for that person to ask if they might be taught to make what you make.
This is an essay about soup, but it is also about friendship. Or rather, this is an essay about soup and how a friendship ends.
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Boxers hide. Jockstraps flaunt. Briefs titillate by the very shape they contour and convey.
I wish I had been warned—not because it would have changed my mind about the procedure, but because I might have been more prepared.
In adolescence, weekend lunches meant fending for ourselves. On certain Saturdays, my sister and I ate wafu spaghetti together.