The Power of Yearning


The intensity of my friend’s voices increase and decrease as the conversation vibrates between gossip and the weather, the music downslides and loses meaning, and the snapshots and the flash from cell phones continue to light up the darkness in greater numbers as another night to remember wails on. I’m sitting in my lawn chair, staring into a fire that’s dying out, not really involved in any conversation except to reply yes when someone asks me to take yet another picture of them. I catch myself checking the time, yearning for someone to say it’s time for bed, for the drinks to stop continually pouring, and the fire to trickle out to nothing. I ask myself for the thousandth time why I chose to go to a party when I could be at home with a book filled with the power to light a fire in me that I don’t want to put out; filled with a million conversations that hold meaning; filled with pictures to create yourself with the aid of words.

But once I choose to stay home and at last I’m drowning in words, I still have a wisp of air reminding me of what I’m missing out on just a short drive away, my youth. I can read all the books I want when I’m retired. I’m missing out on my time to be careless and make mistakes without repercussions from the “real world” chasing after me. I’m missing out on loud music, mixed drinks, and so much laughter. I ask myself for the thousandth time why I chose to stay home when there is party I could be at, making memories, gossiping about the petty things in life, and staying up till the sun rises.

So what is it that I really yearn for?

I really couldn’t figure it out until I hung out with people that were older, wiser, and more experienced than I. I packed my bags and went alone to Yellow Springs, Ohio and was among the youngest people at the writers’ workshop by a couple of decades. When my friends asked if I was miserable and bored hanging out with people who were older than I am, I realized it was quite the opposite; I was having the time of my life.

Older people at The Antioch Writers’ Workshop also gave me the answer to what my subconscious was looking for while I was stuck between the “I want to go out and party every night because I’m young” attitude and the “I want to stay home and study all night because someday I am going to rule the world” attitude.

I yearn for conversations that don’t involve cell phones. I’m not going to lie; I was reluctant to agree to go out for a meal with a group of older people. I was debating going alone for a long time until I was suddenly riding shot gun in a car with a driver whose name I didn’t know and another woman who wouldn’t stop talking about murder. We chose collectively a place to have lunch and when we were seated, I took my phone out and started checking my messages without thinking twice. It was scary, really, how it was routine to take my cell phone out to avoid awkward conversation with these strangers. It was even scarier that the only reason I noticed was because they were waiting for me to put it away, with careful eyes. One of them asked in a very gracious tone, “Is everything okay?” It was so foreign to these ladies to have a phone out during a meal that they were truly concerned about my well-being. I didn’t dare touch it the rest of the meal, or really at all, the rest of the workshop. I didn’t realize how much important conversation and life that I was missing out on. I started to learn so much more, see so much more, and live so much more without my cell phone. I wouldn’t have seen the beautiful deer grazing through the car window, I wouldn’t have heard one of the ladies say she took her dog to a pet psychic, and I wouldn’t have been invited to remain life time friends with these ladies if I didn’t put my phone away and live.

I yearn for the understanding that you can learn something from every single person you come across. Each person was intriguing in their own way, each having an experience to share that the other didn’t. I met a woman from Tennessee that climbed Mount Everest and told me the only thing she cared about was that she didn’t break a nail the entire time. I met a retired travel agent that has been to every continent except Antarctica and has said yes to almost everything that you would see in a Taken movie and is still alive. I met someone who refers to themselves as the “ex-librarian”. I met a woman with lipstick so bright she left an imprint on all of her water bottles. I met a woman who left Singapore after her mother was killed by a truck while crossing the street to come to America to write a beautiful story about it. I was finding so many small facts that shaped these people’s lives. I have a notebook full of things these people would say and do and I would look at myself and think, “What could I possibly say to make them want to take notes on me?” But as they held so much valuable information for me to store in a special file in my brain, they found even the smallest piece of advice (the only piece of advice) I had to offer to them in return. They all wanted to know how to blog. I taught all different sorts of humans with gray hair how to make a blog and they loved it. I want to hug them forever for not only teaching me so much, but also finding the one piece of information they could take away from me without trying.

I yearn for conversation that has meaning. There was no gossip, there was no small talk about the weather or sports. There were people who weren’t afraid to ask questions. There were people who were determined to find the answers. They didn’t care if it was 90 degrees and sunny outside; they cared about who you were and what was really on your mind. They knew underneath the rain outside, there was a puddle in your brain with something deeper sloshing around inside it.

I yearn for a collection of business cards and e-mails. I was ready to jump the gun and give out my phone number to all of my newly made friends, ready to recite each number as they typed it into their phone. But, it didn’t happen this way. They each had a stack of business cards with their e-mails on them that they were passing out like candy. They would look at me expecting me to hand them one in return but I was a deer in headlights. I felt stupid, vulnerable, and ignorant as I ripped a piece of paper out of my notebook and scribbled out my email a thousand times. I figured they wouldn’t take it seriously, lose it, or would be incapable of reading my handwriting. When I got home my inbox was flooded.

I yearn to not be afraid to be alone. I tried living alone and every night I would have a different friend over to avoid the silence and awkwardness of being by myself. I would have never admitted that then, I would have sworn a million times over I was just having fun and partying my life away every night. But the truth was, my worst nightmare was being alone. Everyone I met at this writer’s workshop loved being alone. They wanted to be alone to write, to think, to do anything. The travel agent would casually say that she would buy a ticket to Asia and stay there for weeks alone. I couldn’t imagine having the bravery to tackle a trip like that. That is until I was left alone in my room I was staying in for the week, with nothing to do because everyone else had climbed into their cocoons to do whatever you do when you’re alone. It was awkward at first, as it had always been for me, being alone. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I tried watching TV, I tried eating pointless snacks to pass the time, I tried falling asleep, but I always ended up writing. I fell in love with not only writing, but writing alone. I’ve gained a sense of independence that I don’t want to lose.

I yearn to never quit. I have heard “never say never”, “I will not quit till I get what I want”, and “I will chase my dream until I catch it” countless times. The difference I found while I was living in Yellow Springs for a week was these people actually meant it. You see it in their eyes, you could hear in their voices, you could feel their passion when they spoke about their dreams.  I will never use those phrases, as cliché as they might be, again without entirely meaning exactly what they are saying.

I yearn to keep my older, wiser, experienced friends forever.  These are the people that drove me to conquer my fears and help me create dreams bigger than I ever imagined. These are the people that taught me that enjoying your youth does not mean you cannot be productive.


When Life Defeats Fear

I think the power of a good book can never quite be explained. The power the pages hold within them to be able to take you away to somewhere you’ve never been; the power to live a million different lives through so many perfectly constructed characters; and the power to open your mind to ideas you would have never thought of without it.

A book I adore dearly, the Life of Pi, taught me many lessons that I will never let go of. The most important came from two very short sentences, ” I must say a word about fear. It is life’s only true opponent. Only fear can defeat life.” Those words are so important to me that I can’t do them any justice but to share them.

There are a lot of things in life that I fear. I have a fear of letting go of things I know I must; I have a fear of being too far away from the people and places I love, I have a fear of not being on the right track for my life, I have a fear of what people think of writing I share, I have a fear of sharing my emotions through writing, I have a fear of a lot of things.

The best feeling in the world was letting go of all those fears and living, turning all of the have’s to had’s. It’s amazing the things that can happen when you defeat life’s only true opponent.

My fears turned laughable as I let go of them on this trip. The things I let go of I don’t even seem to miss, the people I love are always close, I love the track I’m on, I love sharing my writing, and I’m not afraid to share what I’m feeling anymore. Instead of saying “there’s no place like home” I find myself wishing I was still on the road.

I let go of fear and with that I learned and experienced so much more than I would have with it.

On the last leg of my trip, I was afraid of being bored by the next cities I was stopping in. This fear also turned laughable when I arrived. Natchez, Mississippi and Memphis, Tennessee were my last two stops. In Natchez I visited a mansion the city boasts upon that was built by slaves the family owned. In Memphis I learned about the lives the same slaves lived in a whole new light. The mansion was very beautiful but the story behind it was so horrid it was hard to look at it again, even in pictures. At the Civil Rights Museum I had tears in my eyes reading and listening to the stories of so many forgotten souls. Although I have learned and been tested on segregation, slavery, and civil rights countless times, it was different to experience it like this with tears in my eyes in the middle of the museum. It was different to actually hear the cries from slaves, see the very same bus Rosa Park sat on, and a Greyhound bus that was destroyed in the freedom rides.  When I made it to the last exhibit I was taken aback by what I was standing in front of. The place where Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was slain. I will never forget this moment and how I felt, a feeling that can only be experienced, not explained. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. did not let fear defeat life rather he predicted his own death and continued to fight for the life he wanted to live. The power we have to continue to make his dreams come true is something we should employ more often than we do.


(Greyhound bus destroyed during the freedom rides)

If you take anything from this blog, it’s to live life without fear.

Meet the Family

There are a lot of cheesy family quotes I could find on google to help me write an article about how my family is the best and I couldn’t live without them, but that would be awfully boring. Quotes that came from their own mouths would be a lot more intriguing and entertaining. Don’t lie to yourself, you can probably relate to the mess of people I call family at one time or another. So let me introduce you to the Jordan family.

1. The story teller.

Even though you’ve known him your entire life, he always has another story about the good ol’ days to tell. These stories usually end with something like, “Don’t you dare tell your mother I told you any of this!”

Meet my Uncle Dave.


2. The one who is always late. 

They are never prepared. They check everything off their “to-do” list but somehow they still aren’t ready. More than once they say something along the lines of “I’m just going to go to the ATM real quick, it’s right down the street.” Somehow this ATM trip turns into a 3 hour journey.

Meet my mother, Christine.










3. The one that always ends up too drunk. 

Your typical “I’m just going to have one drink” person who ends up screaming “chug, chug, chug!” by the end of the night. A quote that screams strong to me is, “Morgan, am I going to die?”

Meet my cousin, Bailey.


4. The one who loves to eat. 

He ordered a rack of ribs, an entire chicken, a pound of brisket, a pint of cream corn, half a pound of peach cobbler, a loaf of bread, and probably a coke to top it off. The most common thing out of his mouth is, “I have the meat sweats.”

Meet my Uncle Matt.


5. The absolutely goofy one. 

Everybody has tears in their eyes sending him off to Deutschland again and all he can say is “You big dummies!”

Meet my Uncle Jeff.


6. The one who doesn’t speak the same language as you. 

We actually communicated through pig noises. I’ll just let you picture that in your own head.

Meet my cousin Caitlin.


7. The dumb best friend that tags along on family vacations.

“What’s the Alamo?”

Meet my best friend, Andrea.


8. The political one. 

You know the one who has stop by every “guns prohibited” sign to take a picture of it and chants “build that wall!” at any given chance.


9. The one who acts like she has it together but secretly doesn’t. 

She had this awesome BBQ restaurant you can only find in Texas that we had to go to. Somehow we ended up at an auto shop in the middle of the ghetto.


10. The foundation of the family. 

She keeps us together while asking herself, “How did I end up with all of you?”

Meet my grandmother, Ruth.


Do you feel like part of the family yet?


A Love Story that’s not about a Boy….Thank God


I’m 19 years old and already a handful of my friends are getting married, having pretty babies, or buying their forever homes. All power to them, but I am very happily single, I can barely take care of myself let alone take care of a child, and I have a balance of $8.80 in my checking account. $8.80 is not even enough to pay the phone bill to call a realtor.

My friends that have fiances, babies, and homes say it’s easy because they love it. They also say when you’re in love, you’ll know you are in love.

Well, I know I am in love with the city of New Orleans.

Everybody loves lists so here’s a list of the many things I learned about love in New Orleans (don’t worry, it’s actually only 5 things, but an important 5 things):

1. When you fall in love with one thing, you start to fall in love with everything. First, I fell in love with the beautiful architecture of the homes; then I fell in love with the flowers that were practically growing out of the homes and suffocating the windows; then I fell in love with the way the streets were inches away from falling into the ocean; then I fell in love with the stray cats that made the entire city their home and each passerby their friend; I fell in love with being in love.

2. Everything becomes beautiful when you fall in love, whether it be with a person, place or thing. Even the dirtiest of dirty things became beautiful after I fell in love with New Orleans. The masks of dirt on my feet were beautiful because it came from miles of walking through the most beautiful streets. The bottle of rum that 3 or 4 worn down men were passing around became beautiful because you could tell it was their favorite part of the day. The cracks in the sidewalk became beautiful after it rained because all of the lone animals were hydrated from water saved up by those cracks. Everything in this city worked together and nothing was out of place. You could even find purpose for the smallest grain of dirt and make it beautiful.

3. When people are in love, they treat life differently. I had never experienced “southern hospitality” until just recently, but now that I have experienced it, I understand it in a whole new light. These people are extraordinarily nice because they love their home and want to share it with you. They don’t just want to hold the door for you, they want to tell you where to eat that day. They don’t just want to help you with your luggage, they want to fill your day with activities for you. They don’t just want to know how you are, they want to know your name, where you are from, how long you are staying and if you want to stay forever.

4. Love can be super small and it doesn’t matter. Love can be as small as talking to a vendor in the French Market and listening to their stories, you don’t have to buy a single thing, listening is enough. Love can be as small as listening to the many bands on Bourbon Street and appreciating the beautiful sounds, you don’t even have to throw money in their hats. Love can be as small as laying in the grass, listening to boats come in from the Mississippi, you don’t even have to stand up to watch, listening is enough.

5. Love is fun. I give you all the power in New Orleans to figure this one out on your own.

Why be a human when you can be a sponge?


Babies relate to sponges more than anything else in the world. They absorb everything around them; sights, smells, sounds, touch, and taste. You can always see the gears in their always growing brains turning, taking in everything they can and putting it in a special filing cabinet to save for later.

Why does our sponge of a brain dry up as we get old? When do we decide it’s time to stop filing new smells, sights, sounds, tastes, and touch? When do we make the presumption that the person walking next us on the sidewalk doesn’t have a story we want to hear? When in our life did it become more beneficial to look down at our feet or phone than to look up at the world and absorb all of it?

The Gulf Shores of Alabama was the first place I noticed I was missing out on the simplicity and power of my 5 senses. I closed my eyes and took time with the greatest and free gift the world has to offer, the world itself.

The smells came rushing. I could smell the small things like sun screen fresh out of the bottle and plastered a little too heavily on the child’s back; I could smell the big things like the never ending breeze of salt coming off the water to tickle noses. The scent of beer from visitors failing to hide them lingered, the smell of BBQ from a picnic nearby, and a little bit of a grandmother’s perfume that was too strong for the beach was caught in the breeze.

You could taste the sea salt that stole all the moisture from your mouth to create a little desert. It was saltier than over seasoned French fries from a drive-thru. All of the little grains mixing to create a concoction in your stomach strong enough to make you sick. The only remedy is to wash it away with something just as sweet as the ocean is salty. My pick was a slushy from the nearest gas station.

The touch from the sun, Earth’s natural fireplace. You don’t have to reach very far to find a shell, rough and left behind from a critter. Each grain of sand, special and different from the other, the South’s version of snowflakes, so soft and delicate. You could feel the ocean giving the world a tight hug.

And finally, when I opened my eyes and could connect the other 4 senses with my sight, it was like seeing the beach for my first time again. Each feature outlined and highlighted, put together so perfectly like an 1,000 piece puzzle. I could see the picnic I smelled earlier, I could see the waves I had heard crashing, I could see each small grain of salt I tasted in my mouth, and I could see the warm and darling sun I felt on my skin beating down even harder on crisp sun burns.

The world starts to become beautiful again when you remember your roots of being a sponge.

If Walls Could Talk


There’s something to be said for a tour where the walls do most of the talking rather than the guide. Stepping into Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s home is an experience there are no words for, all you can do is stand and absorb your surroundings.

The Montgomery sun was spilling through the windows and highlighting the furniture from the 1960’s. The home was lit up from the beating sun like it was still a place where a family could gather around the dining room table and play cards. The living room was warm and the fireplace was inviting. The beds were made and children’s toys were scattered about. The office had a several lives worth of reading material and a desk that looked like it’s companion had just left to get another cup of coffee fresh from the pot a room away.

It felt like the rooms were lying to it’s visitors. Dr. Martin Luther King and his family couldn’t sit peacefully and play cards, sit around the fire, or eat an undisturbed meal. It became routine for the phone to ring in the middle of the night bearing threats to his home, an assortment of people to be knocking at the door at any hour, and it wasn’t a surprise when his front porch was bombed.
To be standing where the porch, the walls, and the furniture hold so much silent power will you make you feel very and rightfully small.

On the kitchen table was a vase full of fake red carnations, Mrs. King’s favorite.  Mrs. King did not understand why the carnations were artificial; after all the years of marriage he had always sent real, beautiful, scented, red carnations. Martin told her he wanted to give her something she could always keep. They were the last flowers she ever received from Dr. King.

It is truly amazing, how many words an artificial flower can say.

I will not give you a history lesson, I will not try to make you feel how I felt looking at the vase of carnations, and I will not try to persuade you to visit Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s home; but I will tell you rather than to stop and smell the flowers, start listening to them.

Escaping Marysville


What are we trying to escape from when we go on “vacation”? What are we expecting to find so many miles away from home? “I can’t wait to be on vacation”, “only 53 days till vacation”, or “I really need a vacation.” Start noticing how many times the people around us are wishing to escape.

I was only 387.2 miles away from home when I arrived in Nashville, but I was expecting to experience more than 387.2 new things when I stepped into the city of music and took my first breath of that good ol’ country air. I had been imagining myself casually running into the Everly Brothers, Elvis, or maybe even Johnny Cash on a stroll through the city. Even though most of them are dead or reaching death, isn’t that what’s suppose to happen in Nashville?

The closest I got to Elvis was a small picture of him in a corner of a pamphlet titled “Things to do in Nashville.” What I enjoyed the most about Nashville was not even in the “Things to do in Nashville” pamphlet. What I enjoyed most were the baby ducks and the city pigeons.

I was in the city of music and I couldn’t keep my eyes off the very common ducklings and pigeons. Yes, you could argue that I drove 387.2 miles to be entertained by something I could experience less than a mile away from home, but this wasn’t something I could experience at home. The ducklings were more yellow than the ones at home, the pigeons were more friendly than the ones at home, and their home was a little more green.

I was creating conversations in my head and naming the ducklings as they rushed by creating small waves behind them. It was rush hour in their pond and it was like you could hear a chorus of new born ducks screaming, “Wait for me!” to their mother.

The pigeons on the other hand were standing around with piercing glances that were obviously saying, “feed me!” Some of them were face down in the mud like a kid on his 3rd birthday party claiming the entire chocolate cake as his.

I stayed here for awhile, admiring the brave pigeons and the swift ducklings until I noticed my company wasn’t as amused as I was with the free entertainment.

I don’t want to use the cliche, “it’s the little things” but I drove 327.2 miles to escape home and all I can remember about the city of music are the everyday ducklings and pigeons; so I will say, it’s the little things.

If You Put a College Girl on a Farm


Before you pack up your bags and head down the winding roads to Milwaukee allow me to tell you the story of the silly white girl on the farm. Muhammed Ali once said, “A rooster only crows only when it sees the light. Put him in the dark and he’ll never crow. I have seen the light and I’m crowing.” Muhammed Ali sure did sum up all my thoughts on my conquest to Milwaukee. For one thing, the theory about roosters crowing at the break of dawn is true, I can confirm it. For another thing, it might have been the chickens or the experience but landing in a farm was a wakeup call.

You might be wondering why on God’s green Earth was I on a farm in the middle of Milwaukee instead of recreating a scene from “Spring Breakers”. It’s a long story. A lot of people use college as a fresh start;  a way to get away from home, make new friends, drink a lot of beer, and never see anyone from their high school again. This experience was a little different for me considering I chose to go to college exactly 34 miles away from my parents’ house, a good population of the campus went to high school with me, and you’d have to travel over an hour to get to the nearest party. All of this being said, I wasn’t exactly your typical just-out-of-high-school and can’t-wait-for-move-in-day girl. I didn’t even know when the first day of school was until I remembered there was some book we were supposed to read over the summer. “Some book” ended up being a book that would almost, key-word almost, be a bigger wakeup call than the roosters in Milwaukee.

It was called The Good Food Revolution. Will Allen, the author, quits his high-up position at Proctor and Gamble and buys a farm on West Silver Spring Drive in Milwaukee. People are experiencing a divorce from their food; they don’t care where it came from, what it looks like, what it went through to get on their plate, as long as it’s convenient and this lit a fire in Will Allen that would never die. People from around the world visit his urban farm, Growing Power, to learn how to create a sustainable lifestyle. Will Allen is the reason I don’t go through the drive-thru every morning to get the healthiest thing on the McDonalds menu, an Egg McMuffin, anymore. He’s also the reason I drove 6 hours and 22 minutes to Growing Power so I could make-up the divorce I was having with my food.

So here I was in a city I’d never been to before, entering a culture I’d never been around before, and with people whom I’d never seen before, ready for my first day on the farm.

As soon as the first rooster did its thing the whole place was up and at em’. I guess you could take one look at me and tell I was not use to this because a little Asian harvesting bean sprouts took one look at me and squeaked out two words, “You tired!” He got a real chuckle out of that one. Growing Power has people from all different cultures working for their movement and the little Asian could get twice, if not even maybe three times, the amount of work done I could without breaking a sweat. Wakeup call #23,354,656.

Here I was, spending my spring break on a farm ready to take on the makings of salad.

I will never look at a salad the same way again. If you google, “how to make a salad” the first result will tell you very confidently, “Use your hands or two large spoons to gently turn the greens over in the bowl until they’re well coated. Taste a leaf and add a little oil, vinegar, salt, or pepper until the salad is seasoned correctly. Serve the salad immediately or the dressing will cause it to wilt.” I’m here to tell you this is bullshit. I’ll give you the real instructions on how to make a salad.

First, you’re going to need compost. So roughly 3-8 months before you eat your salad, you’re going to need to think about making your compost. This sometimes requires working with a shovel, which I had never done before in my lifeguarding days. Again, I guess you could take one look at me and tell I’ve barely touched a shovel in my life before because the native Milwaukee boys who have been at this sustainability thing since Growing Power opened in 1993 decided to play a trick on the silly white girl on a farm. They would yell at me multiple times, “Use your back to shovel!” I learned the next day, you should never use your back to shovel or do anything, really. Very funny, boys.

Second, you need to make sure the soil is 70 degrees. Have fun figuring that one out.

Third, you’ll need to pick out at least 10 different types of seeds that will grow ideally in your environment. Those 10 might not even work so be prepared for failure after 3-8 months of waiting for your salad.

Fourth, you’ll have to start your seed.

Fifth, you have to make sure your plants don’t get stressed out by keeping their soil moist. This requires working every day, yes, even the weekends so if you aren’t ready for the commitment you aren’t ready for salad.

Sixth, did you think we left climate in step two and never thought about it again? Wrong. When it’s colder than your salad likes you’ll need to warm it up and when it’s too hot you’ll need to cool it down. It’s not as easy as putting a blanket on or jumping in a pool, either. It rained a few times while I was at Growing Power. Don’t bother doing your hair, make-up, or dressing well before working on a farm because you’ll be tracking dirt with you everywhere you go for at least a week after. A few times after I returned home, my mother would scold me for leaving dirt on the toilet seat. Don’t ask me how dirt got there, I have no idea, it just did.

Seventh, wow, months later, you’re ready to harvest!

Eighth, yeah, sorry we aren’t done. If you really want to make another salad, that’s a whole another 9 or 10 steps. Maybe you can catch that in my next story. There’s always more work to do and if you aren’t ready for the work, you aren’t ready for the challenging but rewarding sustainable lifestyle which another worker, a lot older than I made clear when she said, “I don’t care how slow a person works, I don’t care how short a time a person works, or what kind of work they are doing, as long as they are working hard, they are welcome.” These words, I will carry with me in a special spot in my mind.

You want salad dressing? More steps.

You want croutons? More steps.

You want eggs? More steps. Humans complain about child birth but you should see these chickens go to work. I was collecting over 400 eggs a day, which was my favorite part of the day. Growing Power gave the white silly girl on the farm the nickname, “Chicken Lady” for my time there. Collecting eggs was a time to take a break from shoveling. I would be stupid to not want to be the Chicken Lady on the farm.

Bacon Bits?  More steps.

Not only did I learn that committing to making a salad is harder than committing to a high school boyfriend, a new scrap-booking hobby, or flossing every day; I also learned that there is a certain kind of freedom and joy you feel when you live a sustainable lifestyle. You can compare it to a toddler who just took the training wheels off his bike for the first time. You don’t fall down to your knees at the sight of a drive-thru, you don’t spend too much time browsing the frozen food section, and you don’t have to worry about starving if a zombie apocalypse were to ever happen because you have all the skills you need to feed yourself.

The point is, I’ll never look at salad the same way again. Thank you Milwaukee, for allowing me to see the light.