I hated cranberry sauce, but for some reason my mom persisted in her lifelong belief that it was my very favorite food, even though every single Thanksgiving I politely declined to include it on my plate.

Love is the most common miracle.

It turns out that, somehow, there are a tremendous number of things to be optimistic about.

Sunlight feels warm and rough against your skin like a kiss on the cheek from your dad.

Maybe we're grass—our roots so interdependent that no one is dead as long as someone is still alive.

I always wondered if there was a purpose to the universe, if there was a plan, if there was some sort of organizing factor, hopefully that I played a role in.

The food was so good that with each passing course, our conversation devolved further into fragmented celebrations of its deliciousness: 'I want this dragon carrot risotto to become a person so I can take it to Las Vegas and marry it.