Recipes for Trouble

Come to the Bazaar

My cousin was serving the coffee. We’d just made it through lunch without any emotional mishaps: my eighty-year-old mother, my brisk, patrician sixty-year-old cousin, and forty-something me. The clafouti was delicious, the conversation only mildly treacherous. For some reason, we’d chanced upon the notion of queer theory and though it gave my cousin a…

Recipes for Trouble

Rhubarb and Strawberries

Planes and trains, roads and departure lounges… I’m on the road a lot these days, emptying out and filling up suitcases, sleeping in strangely capacious beds, waking up and trying to grasp and recognize the light. I’m in love, too, so the trips, intriguing and exciting as they are, are framed with a crisp,…