Carrie Saum

If you tend to eschew your inner child and prefer to feel somewhat sophisticated and faux-healthy, you can call a frozen wine drink a smoothie and it totally counts. Because we are all of a legal drinking age here and there is no shame in consuming your daily super fruit serving in a nutritious, fermented, frozen liquid form. The best part about all of this is you don’t need GOOD wine, you just need not-chardonnay.

I LOVE brunch. I love brunch more than I love most humans/animals/home renovation shows. It will come as no surprise when I tell you that I revere brunch like many people revere Lady Gaga and The Big Lebowski and Christmas. Brunch is a Big Deal for me — I take it seriously.

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My BFF has been trying to go easy on the grains lately.

As white feminists, we have an absolute and undeniable responsibility to seek out perspectives of marginalized people and gain understanding.

Insisting on capability robs us of vulnerability. It robs us of the village we so desperately need. It creates resentment and mistrust. And most of all, it sets us up to fail.

If you are like me, you weren't raised to tune into your body, mind, or spirit. Tuning in was something you did to television, or something you made fun of when your weird Aunt Susan told you how to breathe into your third chakra to release your blocked Chi from three lifetimes ago.

Instead of making lunch once a day, I make it once every three days. It saves on energy, brain power, and I don't have to figure out feeding myself in my janky kitchen more often than absolutely necessary.

Heating up a kitchen while you are doing your level best to not become human molten lava is always the goal during summer, no matter where you live. I prefer batch cooking if I can make that happen, and never, under any circumstances, do I turn on my oven. Unless I'm baking a birthday cake or maybe some hand pies.

I say this: Stop fat-shaming my toddler son. Fat will not make him fat. Fat does not make him unhealthy.