Pot luck

New York Times Magazine

For a refugee from a small town, Manhattan always feels like the luckiest place to be on New Year’s Eve. It’s the one night when my consort and I can walk out our front door and into the park at midnight to toast city life in an effervescence of fireworks and Champagne.

The next day, though, my pessimistic roots resurface. I have to have black-eyed peas. Continue reading