My mother does not approve of off-color language. But she is going to tell the story, the whole story and nothing but the story, even if she must reference her own hind parts.
“Have I told you about Mr. Warble? George Warble?” she asks my sister and me. We are on a conference line. She has called this meeting, not a good sign.

I was standing in a line that stretched out the door and down the sidewalk as we gathered to clock in. It was only 6:15 a.m., but already it was over eighty degrees. I could see sweat stains beginning to form on the shirt backs of the few men directly before me in line. Ahead lay nine and a half hours upstairs, on the second floor of the old factory building

I’ve been to New Guinea five times, and in 2025 was looking forward to my sixth visit to explore the world’s second-largest island – this time to venture deep into the remote, swampy terrain of the Kombai. A unique expedition, to participate in a sago palm grub festival. There’d be dancing, and chanting, and I’d probably make a fool of myself trying to mimic their rhythms.

My Nonna’s kitchen was a symphony of aromas. For my Italian grandmother, cooking was her love language. The air was always thick with the scent of olive oil, garlic, and her signature homemade tomato sauce (sugo). Her dishes nourished us and always left us wanting more. The lingering taste of only the freshest homemade ingredients was part of her signature style in the kitchen.