The Yellow House

I’m not really sure how this is possible, but between late-coming warmer temperatures and the impending solstice, I seem to have missed documenting an entire season here. It’s been muggy and very warm here, per the rules for Virginia-in-June, and I’d feel remiss if I didn’t write down a few notes before it’s full-blown summer.

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I’ve been on a memoir kick. My extended commute gives me ample time to read, and without realizing it, books by extraordinary women have floated to the top of the pile. First, it was Madeleine L’Engle’s A Circle of Quiet (any other Wrinkle in Time fans out there?); then, Tina Fey’s Bossypants (I cannot get over how fiercely funny and smart this book was); and most recently, Julia Child’s My Life in France.I don’t know about you, but when I picture Julia Child, I picture either the dual tomes of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, or a tall-but-hunched-over, older lady on PBS. I’ve always understood that she’s legendary, and even perhaps understood why, but never did I imagine I’d be so captivated by a recounting of her life. » Click to read more