It’s the 11th again, and like last time I’m inspired by an essay I read online. This time it’s Vinson Cunningham’s Grub Street Diet. It’s a beautiful piece about sustenance and loss, about great grief and the ritualistic eating that soothes in its wake: “By nature, I eat and drink to celebrate, to mourn, to reward myself, and sometimes, sure, to ward off unwanted thoughts.” There’s a lot to mull over, including some wistful thoughts about corned beef hash. But what I can’t stop thinking about is the part about the Puritan poet Anne Bradstreet. According to Cunningham,
Farewell, My Pelf!
Farewell, My Pelf!
Farewell, My Pelf!
It’s the 11th again, and like last time I’m inspired by an essay I read online. This time it’s Vinson Cunningham’s Grub Street Diet. It’s a beautiful piece about sustenance and loss, about great grief and the ritualistic eating that soothes in its wake: “By nature, I eat and drink to celebrate, to mourn, to reward myself, and sometimes, sure, to ward off unwanted thoughts.” There’s a lot to mull over, including some wistful thoughts about corned beef hash. But what I can’t stop thinking about is the part about the Puritan poet Anne Bradstreet. According to Cunningham,