In the first year of Gail Collins's survey of "the amazing journey of American women from 1960 to the present," I turned 12.
Organic strawberries were $5.99 the other day at our local grocer. $5.99! Their more toxic twins, the non-organic variety, were on sale for $3. Darn this pesticide-free living. I stood staring at that clamshell of bruised strawberries and fought with myself. The farmers market was still three days away. I really wanted those berries.
More Peas, Please
For quite a few winters now, I have watched a great joy of mine turn slowly into sadness: No one writes letters anymore, a fact that is especially noticeable at Christmas card time.
"No thanks, it makes me sick." "Let’s see, if I leave the milk out of these rolls Sheila can eat them."