At what point do we stop playing? At what point do we stop savoring every last breath of salty summer air? At some point in my thirty-plus seasons of summer I all but lost the art of play. This summer, I am determined to get it back.
My most recent trip to Iceland was a smack-in-the-face reminder of things that I deep down already knew to be true: people are genuinely kind, the world that we live in is strikingly beautiful, and nature is fucking in charge, hands down.
I know, I know ... the thought of tofu in a Thanksgiving pie may not sound awesome, but trust me on this one. I even tricked my tofu-hating brother into it last Thanksgiving by not telling him it was the big "V" word, and he loved it.