As I sit here typing it is a beautiful spring day. The temperature is just right, not too hot and not too cold. Somewhere in the back of my mind I can hear my grandmother, God rest her soul, saying, “For heavens sakes, child, prop open a window and let the outside in.” I would, Grandmaw, I’d love, too. Only my windows don’t prop, drats. My

Yesterday my doctor told me he wanted to do a cat scan of my brain. This came as no surprise to the family jokers around here, but it isn’t the functions of my strange brain that are concerning the man, y’all. Doc is worried about my recurring ear infections and the possible damage to my hearing if they persist. Seeing the poor man wave his

Exercise is such a habit. Having fallen in and out of it over the years, I know falling out is much easier. And yet, I’m always convincing myself that this particular work week is crazier than usual and it’s just this one little day I’ll be missing, and maybe the next. I promise myself that I’ll get back on track. You know the drill, right?

I have two priceless cast iron skillets. Should someone inadvertently add dishwashing liquid to either of them I’d be hard pressed not to have a hissy fit and fall in it! (As an aside for those among who may not have had a southern mama to teach them these things, dishwashing liquid can ruin the finish of a perfectly wonderful skillet and require one to

I enjoyed an invigorating worship session in my back yard this morning that I’m sure gave my neighbors cause to lock their doors. Back story: I like to rework and redeem secular songs, offering them up to God with an entirely new twist on the intent of the one who penned them. I’ve sang “Jesus, Jesus, I get down on my knees for you” for

Many years ago, back when my sisters and I were backseat warriors in the family car, just hearing that we were approaching a highway rest stop was encouraging music to my young ears. It hinted of fresh entertainment and a possible reprieve from various levels of torture. For starters there was the constant harassment I suffered as the baby of the family. If I wasn’t

The pretty young mother sitting across the table from me at a recent speaking event looked like she wasn’t much more than a child herself, so I was quite surprised to discover she had two kids of her own, one of them a teenager. Perhaps to prove her story, the young mother pulled out a few photos of her children and then she offered the

The house was still. It was just me and the wee one, Connor Phillip Maher. I had convinced his mama to let me have the midnight feeding so she could get some much needed rest. The moon flooded into the picture window behind me, bathing the living room in a soft glow and illuminating the tiny features of my newest love. My grandson was

I love monkeys, always have, ever since I was a child toting that stuffed black monkey around Bull Run Road. That’d be the one with the half-chewed plastic banana attached to his hand. I’d be the one who did the chewing. What can I say? It was comforting. The only thing I would’ve loved more than my stuffed monkey would’ve been toting a real one

If I were to ever have my own cooking show, (and other than the occasional spots I do on morning TV, I don’t foresee that happening) I know just what I’d call it, “The Slap Happy Cook.” That epiphany came to me even before I looked the term up in my handy online dictionary. Check this out: Slap Happy is defined as odd random behavior