Why Paula Deen's Words Matter

We were sitting on the long, glossy-topped, mahogany table eating dessert.  I was about 12.   “He beat up that n—–r. Normally, I don’t condone fighting in my boys, but in this case, the kid deserved it.” 12 year old me didn’t know...

The Memory of Peaches

I pulled the peeler through that barely resistant skin, and the scent spiraled up to hit me with this – Mom.  Many, many summers Mom and I made peach jam.  We’d peel and dice, boil and sugar.  Then, she’d skim off the foam – my favorite part of...

Hummingbird Shadows

On the blue wall beside my desk, I catch the glimpse of a flickering shadow, the ghost of an image. Hummingbirds coming to feed just on the other side of the front door. I don’t turn. I know that even the slowest of quiet movements will send them away. Instead,...