Outside, the bare branches of the rose bush and last summer’s basil and even the tulip poplar bend lows in the wind. It’s sunny now — the bright white light bouncing off the snow-covered ground. But it’s frigid. How those tender branches don’t just snap right off, I couldn’t say.
Two Sunday’s ago, Steve streamed the theme song from Rocky as I got up off the couch, walked into the kitchen, and pulled out packages of meat, pasta, rice, and vegetables. Over the next four hours, I chopped, I sauteed, I baked, I roasted, I blended, and then I bagged and packaged and wrapped. When the afternoon was over, I had filled the freezer with …
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The Wonder of Truth: Cari...
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