Listen up, y’all. I have something important to say. Just because it’s Sunday and you’re all alone, that doesn’t mean you can’t make yourself a Sunday night feast. And just because it’s 90 degrees and brutal outside, that doesn’t mean your feast can’t include a roast chicken. I won’t let any of that stop me. No way, no how. Either way I’m roasting a chicken. (You can expect this to be the title of my first memoir.)
I’m a stickler for traditions. If we don’t eat the white lasagna on Christmas Eve or jump in the lake after our morning walks in Vermont, things just don’t feel right. You could accuse me of not liking change (and you’d be right), but I like to think of it as keeping things classic. And just because I like to keep things classic, doesn’t mean that I don’t like to try new things, too.