Slow-cooker chicken congee and the problem with The Runaway Bunny

My son, current nickname Dirtbaby, is 14 months old. He has been walking for three months and no longer holds his arms in front of him like a zombie. He says “thank you” and “book” and “ball” and “hello” and “bye-bye.” He also says “mama” and knows that it’s me I HAVE A SON AND…

Chicken pot pie and WTF breastfeeding

It’s been quite the transition to motherhood or, as I like to call it, Mom Eats Last. Some days it feels like SJ and I are killing it: We get enough sleep, we eat, we shower, the house gets cleaned, the bills get paid, and we leave the house and return to it, all without…

Roast chicken and a rejection letter

There’s only one thing better than being single and childless at 39: having your novel rejected by one of the biggest agents in New York (AGAIN. AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN). My joke these days, although it’s not a joke, is I’m being rejected by the best. Three of the biggest agents with the biggest and most…