Sally Friedman takes a look at Father's Day.
No matter how long I’ve been a parent, I’m still capable of being astonished by my own adult children. And let nobody tell you that “adult children,” that ultimate oxymoron, aren’t still works in progress.
No more first days of school at our house.
It’s well after midnight, and I was in the kitchen enjoying a private binge of frozen cake straight from the package. I’m was feeling out of control, fat and guilty. My husband stumbled in, looking a bit panicky.
My serious mistake had been to believe a friend who had uttered those seven seductive words, “Have I got a guy for you!”
One of the sobering realities of growing older is the recognition that there are paths you’ll never wander again — that you swore you’d never want to.
Music camp at Crescentville church
The kitchen already is an undeclared disaster area. On one counter, bowls with ingredients ranging from lumpy to velvety stand like sentries. On another, two chopping boards bear witness to the recent massacre of onions and carrots.
Howard Snyder, a son of Oxford Circle, returned to his old neighborhood on Oakland Street a few weeks ago for a short trip down memory lane.