I live an old house. It makes sense: writer, vintage property, high on a hill, seclusion. If the liquor store delivered, I’d never leave. Atmosphere is never in short supply, the house adapting to seasons like a clapboard chameleon. I connected to this house the second I saw it, even after confronted by a kitchen that looked like something the Property Brothers would reject. In its favor was a to-die-for sunroom and built-in character, the kind modern homes can’t possibly produce.
Is Clorox Gluten-Free?
I’m a writer. But I never thought I’d write a blog, or even a note to myself, about being gluten-free. Now, surely you’ve just concluded I’m newly diagnosed, that I’ve found my social conversation cross to bear via genealogical fate—but you’d be wrong. I’ve been a card-carrying Celiac for nearly six years. I’ve just never been particularly motivated to put pen to paper—or fingers on a keyboard, as the case may be. If I were to tackle the topic, I’d start with my grandmother. I owe her. In addition to hips wider than I’d like, I’m certain she was the giver of this special gift, although she was never diagnosed.