Every other Tuesday, my roommate and I have fresh, organic produce delivered to our doorstep in a box overflowing with in-season delights. Each delivery is a surprise. Will a pound of juicy white nectarines make my day, or will I have to settle for the pluots, again? (Yes, I know, a first-world complaint.) The whole idea is a total win for the everyday busy, but still-cares-about-good-food person. You’re essentially hiring a local farm to do your fruit and veggie shopping for you. I recently found out that Blissmo, an eco-friendly daily deals / flash sale site (off which I recently bought...

Several months ago, I stumbled upon this DIY-in-a-weekend “love” headboard on a random design blog. After one look at it, I knew it would be the perfect addition to my new room and new life chapter in San Francisco. It wasn’t a matter of IF I could make it—only WHEN. Lucky for me, my step dad, Jer, is incredibly handy. After months of keeping an eye out for scrap wood on the street and at nearby home remodeling sites, and trying to block out enough time to actually build it (the ski season made this particularly difficult), he and I finally made it all come together this weekend. Finding...

Yes. I’ve decided to go vegan. After years of fascination with the topic of food and where ours comes from, and having read several books and numerous articles on the topic, I’ve finally reached the book that tipped me over the edge of vegetarianism into veganism. I’m reading, and have nearly finished, Jonathan Safran Foer’s Eating Animals. Rather than preaching a no-meat lifestyle, Foer simply embarks on his own quest to analyze the stories we tell ourselves about the food we eat (and thus the stories that guide our food-related decisions), the important roles food plays...

A first date. I take the approach that it’ll either be a good date or a good story. (Or I suppose if you’re lucky, both.) A win-win, if you think about it. More often than not, bad dates make for the best stories. And so much of what can make a date go downhill faster than a skier in a grand slalom is bad conversation–or worse–no conversation at all. Last week, a good friend of mine–and fellow dating blogger–got to talking about this. About what kind of advice we give friends, readers, and in his case clients, about how to get through those getting-to-you-know...

I feel suddenly bombarded with the faces, sounds and shoulder-popping moves that drove me into the dance studio as a kid. Britney, the Backstreet Boys and New Kids on the Block are ALL making a come back in 2011? Brace yourself. I grew up choreographing dances (and cartwheel and backflip-heavy gymnastics routines) at gym practice, at school (to the chagrin of the yard duty ladies), on my mom’s front and back lawns, in her living room and my friends’ parents’ living rooms. (Luckily, those home videos have yet to become digital.) Then, enter pop music. My world opened up. I could...

Reflections from September and October, published in November: It took a couple weeks, but I eventually found it. My haven in a land that’s so foreign yet so simple. My way in. My key to a unique taste of Gambian culture. A place where some of the walls starkly dividing rich from poor, white from black, foreign from local come down. …At least for those 2 hours just before dusk when I concede to getting sweaty, sandy and bug-bitten playing volleyball. In a place where I’m an obvious foreigner, where I’m never quite sure if I’ve said too much, too little, too slowly or too quickly, sports...

They look. They holler. And they touch. Usually men. But sometimes, it’s women. At the market, I hardly notice people staring, because I’m too busy watching where I put my feet. I don’t want to trip over a curb, or slip into one. I don’t want to step in a huge puddle. Or stumble into a pothole. Or slip on a pile of muddy trash with flies swarming over it and a stench wafting above it. Or worse, nearly fall into an uncovered part of the sewer. But I know they’re staring. They stare when I’m in the car. Or in a taxi. Or whenever I take my eyes off my feet. Not...

Lightning in The Gambia dances across the entire sky. It’s like the sky is telling a secret, but only those with a keen sense of awareness will be let in on it. Not every strike dances. At the least, each strike is a backlight to the clouds above, a flash of God’s camera capturing that moment in time. But it’s a series of photos so sporadic you couldn’t pose, or predict the next angle, even if you wanted to. To be lucky and catch the sky in the moment — exposing its network of connections, its charge — it’s a secret worth remembering. I don’t know...

I forgot to pack an umbrella. Or any rain gear for that matter. The heaviest jacket I brought is a lightweight cotton cover-up I bought at Top Shop in London a few years back. A little top layer I brought only with mosquito attacks at outdoor restaurants in mind. Yesterday morning, I woke up to the wind and rain pounding against all three of my bedroom windows. We didn’t leave the house the day before because of the rain. While it gave us a chance to practice our Scrabble skills and do some power yoga in the living room, we decided not to let the rain keep us inside again. After a short jaunt...

I walked off the plane and onto the sun-drenched tarmac — my backpack slung around my shoulders, extra carry-on in hand. I pulled my sunglasses off the top of my head and onto my face after two steps beyond the plane’s exit door. Little did I know, this would be the only sun I’d see in the next two days! Despite my doubts, my bag actually made it all the way through 3 stops and 2 different airlines. Impressive, given the horror stories I’d heard about U.S. Airways. A man with no legs, a wheelchair and a huge smile on his face followed Jen and me to her early-90s BMW 5-series...