Little house, I’ve lived in you for over five years. But tomorrow, I’m going away to live with the boy I love.

You took good care of me. Much better care than I took of you, I’m sure. Within your walls I’ve read a hundred books, cried a thousand tears, drank probably as many bottles of wine, and eaten countless meals—mostly good, but some bad. Here, I learned to cultivate my own ingredients. I formed what are probably my greatest, most valuable life-long habits: Growing my own food, and cooking it.

Here I limped home after my first ever yoga class, and repeated the process hundreds of times over. On many summer nights I’ve rolled up to your brick-red steps on my bike, arriving joyfully through a haze of perhaps one too many beers with friends at the Rose and Crown. Or wine at Gravity. Or who knows what, at who knows who’s house.

Here I lived a proper single girl’s life, sharing my bed with a few who probably weren’t worthy, and one who certainly was. Here I lived when my father died. When my grandfather died. When the painful end of a painful years-long relationship finally came, long (LONG) overdue. You comforted me through all this, and more.

You were home to Bowie, too. A special, death-defying cat with the loving personality of a borderline violent schizophrenic who I adore anyway, and am dragging along with me on my journey, whether he likes it or not (he doesn’t like it).

My new home is bigger and newer than you. The windows don’t operate on ropes, and there’s no 1920′s charm to speak of. Never again will I feel the whole house jolt when the washer switches cycles, or the pipes burst open at the command of the sprinkler timer. My mother isn’t down the street, and my best friends aren’t a hop, skip, or jump away.

But it’s where my chickens live. It’s where Zoe the dog lives. It’s where love lives.

So here I go. I’ll miss you, but I won’t mourn you. You helped me grow, learn, and live, and I can only hope that your next roommates will appreciate you as much as I do. I’m so grateful that I’m not sure how I can repay you. Since you’re a house.

Goodbye. <3

“Observe constantly that all things take place by change, and accustom thyself to consider that the nature of the universe loves nothing so much as to change things which are and to make new things like them. For everything that exists is in a manner the seed of that which will be.”

My best friend’s adorable two year old shows us how to enjoy a late-summer strawberry at the farmers market. Even better if you stole it, like he did.

photo by caz.

I’ve been seeing a lot of shitty business advice online lately. Most notably,?refusing to employ someone with poor grammar skills, and?making sure your social media marketer is above the age of 23.

Some of the most intelligent, inspirational people–not to mention communicators and storytellers–I’ve ever known were abysmal writers. Terrible at grammar. Mixed up there,?their,?and they’re so often it seemed almost deliberate. Couldn’t tell you the difference between a colon and semicolon if their life depended on it. To them, it simply wasn’t a priority, the way knowing OSHA regulations isn’t critical to my life or work. Are OSHA regulations important? Yes. Is grammar important? Of course. If you’re ignorant of either, does that mean you’re a waste of professional space? Hardly. With the proper motivation, any intelligent person can learn their way around just about anything.

And as far as this social media business goes, I wasn’t aware that the second you turn 24, you’re immune from accidental posting, annoying friends, shabby work ethics, and poor judgement. Imagine that! Honestly though, since when is age a relevant (or legal) hiring critereon? Does this really need to be said? There are plenty of useless 25 year olds, and a whole hell of a lot of incredibly smart, hardworking 22 year olds out there. Here’s an idea: interview properly and don’t hire idiots.

Someone should write an article on not letting dingbats use gross generalizations as HR policy. It pains me to think about how many stellar candidates will be bypassed because recruiters are actually listening to this drivel disguised as advice.

Katherine McDowell Patterson

He came home every day smelling like an American,
of engine oil, cigarettes, and domestic lager,
and called me a name that wasn’t mine,
but made me feel more like myself than anything.

He had a face like the weather.
Grey and impassive if all was calm,
radiant and adoring if you were lucky,
and menacing as an approaching funnel cloud if you weren’t.

His expressions were blue-eyed harbingers
often tinged with reddened vessels,
that revealed the intensity of his emotions,
but seldom the emotion behind his intensity.

Four years gone, and the only time the tears come
is when I’m caught by a vivid recollection
of the way he smiled with his entire face.
I’ve been told I do it too.

Spring is here! Spring is here! As the weather changes throughout the year, I try to create at least one salad that represents the season and its bounty. Here’s my first crack at spring:

_{arugula, kumato tomatoes, sauteed asparagus and corn, crisped prosciutto,
peppery goat cheese, and a poached farm egg from Birch and Kristine‘s chickens}.

It’s not mind-blowing but it’s a damn good start. I have some more ideas, and who knows, maybe one of them won’t involve goat cheese.

Or pork.

Unlikely, though.