By “Francesca” When God chose a father for the most holy family of all time—a man to be one of the most brightly shining examples of masculinity—He chose Saint Joseph. “Great, thanks for the twee little religious sentiment,” you might well say, but here’s why Saint Joseph matters to everyone: he is the worst nightmare of the destructive cult of masculinity, their stupid little red pills and their bizarre obsession with the slur “cuck.” Everything that keeps red pill poppers... Read more
“What’s for Dinner?” is a shameless aping of Simcha Fisher’s “What’s for Supper?” I was determined to plan dinners on a schedule just like a real mother. I am not good at this. Schedules and I get along even worse than cooking and I do; I never do anything according to a schedule. I can’t manage any scheduling more complicated than jotting “Rose dentist 3:00” onto the back of my hand in marker and realizing it isn’t washable later. I am a... Read more
It started with the London fire. Images of it were all over the internet, as I was getting ready for bed. A high-rise building, engulfed in flames like a torch. Eyewitness accounts of children at the upper windows while the lower floors were engulfed. “A number of deaths–” no word on how many. “Please, don’t let it be terrorists,” said someone online, with a luridness that made me wonder if she wanted it to be terrorists. In a way, it would be simple,... Read more
What is it about The Handmaid's Tale that I find so engaging? Read more
My mother knew a religious sister– let’s call her Sister Angeline. Sister Angeline was a Charismatic. She was apparently a Charismatic leader, someone very important in the “Community” my family belonged to; she was the one who gave talks to all the grown-ups, after Praise and Worship and after “prophecies,” when all the children were herded out of the room. I never once heard her preach at Community meetings. I don’t think I ever heard her preach, not once in... Read more
On the wall of my bachelor uncle’s bedroom, in my paternal grandparents’ house, there were two black and white photographs of ugly people. One photo portrayed a group of people dressed like pilgrims– the men and boys in black suits, the women in long black dresses with white aprons and bonnets. Young children and babies were posed up front in a line, the girls in ruffled white dresses. Nearly everyone in the photo was haggard, careworn, and frowning murderously at the... Read more
I'm often told that the poor are envious. I'm not going to claim I'm without sin, including the sin of envy. Read more
Of any charity in the world you could get caught skimming donations from, Saint Jude's Children's Research Hospital has got to be the worst, from a PR standpoint. Read more
One learns what the poor's real needs are, when they themselves have to learn to do without. Read more
What’s for dinner is a shameless aping of Simcha Fisher’s regular feature “What’s for Supper?” I am not a cook. I used to be. When I was pregnant with Rose I used to watch Hell’s Kitchen and develop violent cravings for exotic restaurant meals we couldn’t possibly afford, so I set about learning to make cheaper and allergy-friendly versions of them myself. Later, when Rose was a baby, I watched The French Chef to keep my sanity during the twelve-to-five colic... Read more
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