Circa age three, my Great Grandmother Lucille taught me this rhyme and how to pump my legs to use our backyard swingset. This Thanksgiving offered a full-circle moment to that earliest memory.
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This week, I had a dream I just can’t shake. And after some reflection and real-life intervention, I don't think I want to. It all makes sense.
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“It was 1997, and I was 23 and working in Boston in my first professional job as a sales service representative for an educational publisher. I answered the 1-800 hotline and spoke with customers all day. But my goal was to become an editor.
One unsuspecting day about six months into the job, my coworkers and I were gathered to learn that our department was being eliminated.”
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After family staycations at the Embassy Suites, my twin sister and I thought “happy hour” was actually called “happy time”. Often, we’d take these trips in the fall. Rachel, my brother Joshua and I would swim for hours. We’d leave the warm indoor pool only to procure Shirley Temple and popcorn refills. We’d sloth on the walls of the pool, shoveling buttery goodness into our mouths. As leaves crunch and the weather crisps, it’s easy to get nostalgic.
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“Brave Tutu, huh? What’s the story there?” I love this question and answer in many different ways, but for now let’s stay true to the mission and share “the moment” I dreamt up the name and concept of this site. This moment was on a porch with a pup.
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If I’m honest—really honest—I’m afraid of cooking a turkey. It’s not about the worry of something tasting bad; that’s a whole other article of vulnerability. No, it’s that sack of guts that lives inside the turkey. Some turkeys don’t even have it in a sack. You have to be a pilgrim or pioneer and go in there blindly. I SHUDDER.
Something—no, everything—about this sack of guts grosses me out. I try not to think about it. But something in this “small” moment of fear seems relevant. Let’s dig into these past weeks.
Read MoreI want to really go back. I’m hungry to taste our traditional cinnamon roll and Lil’ Smokies sausage breakfast. I’d wash it all down with grainy pulp-filled orange juice. To be true to tradition, Joshua and I would fight over the last wrinkled Smokie, even though I’d be stuffed and the aromatic promise of true stuffing filled the air.
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