(or How Comparative Advantage Finally Failed Me) Is it true that many people who enjoy cooking — or who excel at it — had a parent or close relative they watched and learned from? I’ve heard that theory, and it makes sense to me. So what happens when you’re raised by a single mother who not only does not cook, but wouldn’t recognize a fresh vegetable if it came up and bit her on the nose? My mother was a huge fan of TV dinners. And canned vegetables. And other unmemorable meals. On holidays, she made matzah ball soup with
Time has a funny way of giving you perspective — especially once you’ve stepped out of the blender. For years, owning my small business felt like living inside a whirling appliance: loud, chaotic, exhilarating, exhausting. You don’t really see how crazy it all is while you’re in it. You’re just trying not to lose a finger. Now, nearly two years after selling my business, I finally have enough distance to look back and truly see what that life was really like. And I’m in awe. Owning a business is a little like Stockholm Syndrome. You convince yourself that your life
We’ve come full circle: playground to workplace, back to playground. Having sold my business last year—one I owned for most of my adult life—and being theoretically “young” enough to fully enjoy the years ahead, I’ve been thinking a lot about the snowbird phenomenon. Once upon a time, I viewed snowbirds with thinly veiled scorn. These unfaithful fleers of their hometowns who skedaddled to warmer climes at the first sign of winter? Wimps, I thought. In the Mid-Atlantic, we’re talking about a couple of months of discomfort and the occasional snowfall. This isn’t Minnesota, for Pete’s sake. Toughen up. Then I