Ever have a friend that you always invite over to gatherings and dinners, partly for the company and partly because you know they'll bring that one particular dish you've really become partial to?

I almost hate to lapse back into standard recipe-making, but this is a recipe that really should be documented somewhere. Heather made this soup for us quite a few times—it was standard, comforting fare for each of us when we were sick. I had it more than once when I was so sick a year ago.

I stated to Brad that there's something inherently satisfying about coming out of a multiple-day binge of code-fu with a successful result. In this case, 'success' means that the cats are annoyed, the spouse hasn't talked to me much in a few days, and I forgot to brush my hair this morning, but I've accomplished so much code work that I find myself pleased nevertheless.

Before the advent of test kitchens, lo-carb diets, and Twinkies, there were recipes, but they were not recipes as we know them now. I recently read an op-ed piece on Salon which decried the modern recipe as a prime example of our faddish love for scientific precision taking over our willingness to be experimental or inventive.

Ours was pizza, pieces swiped directly from the box, fingers wiped indiscriminately on the lid to rid them of the excess oil. We sat on the little step between the kitchen and what would become the living room, laughing self-consciously at how our voices echoed in the empty room.

The floor, at that particular moment, was nothing but concrete. Our first task after taking possession of our new house was to rip up every shred of carpeting, to prepare the house for the laying-down of newer, better carpet. We'd chosen to sink some extra money into the carpet allowance we'd received from the previous owners, and we intended to get good-quality carpeting with thick padding.Our voices echoed off the walls, the concrete, the ceiling. When we walked around, the steps echoed throughout the house, and we sat there on the edge of the step, looking around at this building—floors, windows, ceilings, fans, doors—in wonder and astonishment because it was ours.

write
not because you can
but because you can't not:
because the words
grind holes in your soul
finding ways to get out
especially if
you don't want them to

your grocery lists will rhyme
and your thank-you notes
sound like poetry
and you will hear—
cadences—
coming from your brain,
incessant,
in the silences between
the beats of your heart

write
because a controlled release
forestalls the explosion
that your creativity foretells

write
because the composition of phrase
makes it plausible
that order can be drawn
from your chaos

write