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On Cooking Pot Roasts (or, (whisper): She Has Other Talents)

“Because everyone knows this: That the impossible happens once to each of us.” ~The Impossible Lives of Greta Wells, by Andrew Sean Greer (TILGW) “You can just say no. You don’t have to give a reason.” It’s May, 2014, I’m 44 years old, and my pal is talking me through the mechanics of turning down a particular invitation. And although I am a little embarrassed to be this far into the game to be learning her lesson, I also remember with painful clarity every “no” I’ve ever uttered. Maybe that's hard to believe, but I swear: I’m telling the truth. ***  If you had asked where I lived back in the early 2000’s, I would have said on “King of Curls Way” and you would have known that was just off Freeport Blvd., across from Raley’s, on the street with the 24-hour hair braiding shop at the corner. Mine was the fifth house in on the left, the one with a combination of wooden shakes, blue siding, and white trim. A charming original 960 square foot 2 bedroom/1 bath 1939 Hollyw
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True Story: How I Met Lewis Buzbee, Author of Fliegelman's Desire

by SalliAnne Maliguine on Monday, 31 December 2012 at 12:57 · “Parts of Fliegelman’s Desire take place in a bookstore, and this last year I met a young woman working at a Tower Books in Sacramento. . . She had read my novel, it seems, and was swayed enough by it to take a job in a bookstore.” ~Lewis Buzbee, “Confessions of a First Novelist” By the time I hit twenty I felt accomplished: I'd retired from dancing, enrolled in classes at Sierra College, and worked a series of temporary office jobs. With the dream of one day becoming a waitress, I interviewed for, and landed, a job as counter-girl at Sam’s Kosher Deli. On day three of the job, while slicing bagels, chatting with the boss about a movie that had just hit the theaters, my left middle finger went through the meat slicer. Seventeen stitches later, I let go of my food service fantasy. At about that time, a friend invited me to join her for an afternoon at Sacramento Reads, a festival in a park. I said

Seattle Thanksgiving

“We’re making brownies now and we’re licking the batter from the bowl. We have 4 minutes until we can taste that,” Pinkie says of the lemon bars baking in the oven.  “No.” Annie says. “Like 9 minutes?” she asks. “No, they won’t be cooled off yet.” “Like 50?” she persists. “Mmm hmm…” Annie caves, absentmindedly. I’m sitting at the booth table in the kitchen on Florentia Street, in Seattle, Washington. Annie and Pinkie lick brownie batter from a bowl, and Cait tools around in the kitchen. We’ve  just declared Thanksgiving Stone Soup our new tradition, inspired by 1 st grade; Pinkie picked the rock from Cait’s yard.  Pinkie started too early, but the rest of us patiently went around the table, said what we were thankful for, mostly being together: friendship, food, family.  It’s scary, starting fresh in a new town, but Cait did it anyway, moved up a few months ago , and being here IS better, for her. And now we are here , are all together. Cait says, “I question m

Hair Blown Back

Girl 1 did this: Clear Your Conscience, Not the Rainforest It's her 2013 EF Global Citizen Scholarship Contest entry. If she wins, she'll go on six days' exploration of Costa Rica followed by a two-day global summit on environmental sustainability in San Jose.  She's never done anything like this before and it's the caliber of what she pulled together that has my hair blown back. I am just beginning to discover what makes her tick, and appreciate her unique and totally authentic point of view.  Winners will be announced in January but if you ask me... I think you know what I'd say.

By Samantha..0

This is a fish ... They called him Rainbow fish. (Girl 2 records her thoughts on a computer, first time, from the red corduroy couch, tonight)  

Delicious Ambiguity: The Beginning

On August 6, 2011, my youngest child’s 5 th birthday, in the middle of a sleepover, at 9:30-ish pm, a family friend, 2 years old, sleeping in her car seat, was shot and killed inside her father’s Toyota 4runner in a remote area in Placer County. It’s an unthinkable cold fact, and really hard. Since August, we’ve kept our antennae up, alert for signs of the girl’s playful spirit. I work hard at being notfurious. At about that general time, I had come to terms with time itself, its coming and going, my calling to jot some things down, make sense of mine, reconcile it, set things right, quiet myself down. My people have occasionally encouraged me to set thoughts to paper. My girl soulmate fanfriend Kellye once had simply said, “You have an interesting story to tell.” Being in my own skin, my story is unremarkable, plainly simple to me. I don’t know anything otherwise. But with this seed planted, in quiet pausing moments, a new question arises now and again: I’m off to Russia

March 22, 2012

we stood on the porch and gossiped you are not boy crazy quietly, you applied for a money job after volunteering all day at the zoo you are so done needing me little, no more this summer, driven crazy like coffee: places, work, things to do amazed, flawed, independent, and you -- annie, annie it’s ok mommy, mommy, it's -- today you are sixteen