Nonfiction

I dreamed of tracing my fingers over the ridged edges of buttery Ritz crackers, of piling the neon yellow cheese and soft pink bologna into never-ending towers….

The day before Robert died was an otherwise perfect June day in Connecticut: warm but not hot, with a bit of a breeze, flawless blue sky, puffy white clouds….

It had come to this: centuries of culinary heritage devolved on my watch into a bunch of parsley liquefied in its produce bag….