Like fruitcake and the word “moist,” eggnog is notorious for being disliked—a cultural meme that must predate the internet, though it’s also the sort of unchallengingly bold opinion that’s tailor-made for the take economy. But cliched as all those anti-eggnog rebukes may be, I get where they’re coming from. Alcoholic milk? Spiked with raw eggs? And we’ve decided to call it nog? Go directly to jail; do not pass Go, do not collect 200 eggs.
At least, that’s what I thought before I tasted the stuff for myself. Continue reading →
Five years ago, I met a boy in Madrid. That sentence—true as it may be—makes our origin story sound a lot more romantic than it actually is. Our eyes didn’t lock from across the floor of a crowded flamenco bar; I had no rose in my hair, and he had none clutched between his teeth; we didn’t spend hours holding hands and whispering sweet nothings to each other, dwarfed by the shadow of the Reina Sofía and, like, a matador. We didn’t, in fact, even start dating until several months later, when we’d both returned to the city where we actually lived: loud, dirty, less-than-exotic New York. Continue reading →