The third week of my junior year of high school, I knew I wanted to drop out.

I had seen snow only twice in my life before moving to the deep northern woods of Michigan.

I lived at home with my mom until I was thirty-five, married and with two kids.

Chocolate fudge is a bite of nostalgia.

I knew I wanted to be a writer when I was seven years old.

My most beloved memories all center around my grandpa’s charcoal grill on long summer evenings. Patio chicken was his crowning glory, a staple at our holiday table.

It all began with a joke ten years ago.