My husband and I found our new favorite chicken wings. You guys, I cannot describe to you how good these things are. They are char-grilled and perfect. We went to get them this weekend; every time we go, I think they're probably not going to be as good as I remember. And EVERY TIME THEY ARE AS GOOD AS I REMEMBER. Now, this is not a piece entirely about chicken wings, but I needed to start somewhere and what better place to start than chicken wings? The chicken wings restaurant is Pies & . . .
I've published a new piece on this blog every single week for the past 85 weeks. EIGHTY-FIVE! Google and I figured that out together. Isn't it wild? There was spotty and unpredictable writing that preceded this 85-week run, but never before has my writing seen so much consistency. 85 weeks. Hold on, I'm going to remove my hands from the keyboard to applaud myself for a second. This is a big win for me. I've never worried about running out of things to write about. As long as I keep living my . . .
You guys, I'm struggling this week. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining about having had a long weekend, but it really throws me off. I don't know what day it is, I'm all behind on work, and somehow I'm more tired now than I am after a regular weekend (Why?!). I think there's something about this time of year that makes me feel extra scattered. Even though no one in my little family is operating on a school year calendar, I can feel all of the transition happening around me. Kids are . . .
Growing up, I couldn’t bear to hear the word “confession” without getting a knot in my stomach. Nothing sounded more miserable than willingly sharing my wrongdoings with other people—let alone with God. This is probably why I wouldn’t do it unless, of course, I was caught in my sin. I don’t need to volunteer my screw-ups to anyone, thank you very much. I’ll keep that information safe with me and we’ll all be better for it. That, however, is not the case. Refusing to engage in confession is . . .
Last weekend, my husband and I had the supreme honor of attending our 4-year-old nephew’s soccer game. It was as hilarious and adorable as you would expect from a gaggle of 4-year-old soccer players—they were running into one another, tripping over their own feet, or standing totally still while staring at the sky for the entire game. I loved it. I love 4-year-old soccer players. (As a proud aunt, I must include that my nephew is legitimately talented at soccer and played a really impressive . . .
Fourth-grade Mallory cracks me up, you guys. I love her and I think she’s precious but, also, just so nerdy. I can still see the layout of Mrs. Hermann’s fourth grade classroom. During this school year, I did a book report on Nevada, was sent to the principal’s office (for the first and last time, mind you), and began discovering that thing about the grass looking greener on the other side. I had straight blonde hair, my face was peppered with freckles, and, oh my goodness, I [apparently] . . .