2017 in Review

There comes a moment, and perhaps it has come in 2017, when I need to believe something better is coming.

Being a woman in male spaces is a gradual, embedded process of disloyalty. When it makes you uncomfortable and sad, that, you are told, is the price of safety.

Radical self-care in a randomized order to match all the curveballs coming at us in this new Thunderdome where we are all trapped.

By twenty-seven I was supposed to be well on my way to stability, or at least the illusion of such. Instead, my life had increasingly taken on a scrappy plainness.

Canadians want to focus on Gord Downie, on anniversaries, on the prime minister’s photo-ops, on giant rubber ducks—on anything, it seems, but Indigenous people.

One thing I love about many types of guardianship in food is that it requires you watch, but not too closely.