It’s one of the first things you see when you walk up to my door.
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cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
It’s one of the first things you see when you walk up to my door.
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When I was in high school, there was a girl named Becca who was labeled as the social outcast.
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In a lavender journal with bears holding on to pink balloons, my 9 year-old self wrote to God, asking for His help to eat better so I wouldn’t be fat anymore.
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When I was a little girl, I always loved watching my mom get ready.
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At the end of December, I was hosting a Christmas party at my house for some friends when I started feeling ill.
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My parents asked me if I had any questions. But, I simply nodded no and told them I understood what was happening.
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I have to confess that the holiday-version of me is intense.
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Three days after Christmas in 1999, I found out that my mom had died her in sleep.
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There is always a bad guy in my house. Light sabers, guns, swords, bows and arrows are often found on my living room floor.
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We were young when Sarah and I first met. I was 15, boy crazy and attempting to emulate my life from the movie Clueless.
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