brent taylor
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For Mom on Her 90th Birthday
I could tell you the things you already know—about Charlotte Elaine Davis Taylor and her ninety remarkable trips around the sun. But legends, as they say, have already been told. So instead, I want to speak of an inner world—the… Continue reading
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The Parable of Spud Dinkins
Excerpt from the book Seven Hills: This story is fiction, though it feels true. One of my favorite childhood pictures shows me dropping a dime into an offering plate at Church. Mom, Dad, and my older sister watch solemnly as… Continue reading
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How Ice Cream Saved the World and Then Ruined It
I was born into a grand culinary experiment—one that began in the hardscrabble kitchens of the Great Depression and evolved through American ingenuity into a postwar paradise of processed food. In those lean years, dietitians emerged as unlikely heroes. While… Continue reading
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Save the Dancer
A well-meaning friend once told me to dance like no one is watching. It didn’t take. I dance like people are watching. I was dancing at a wedding recently, (Apache, Jump on it) and it occurred to me that no… Continue reading
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Cheers That Bring Us to Our Knees
Rory McIlroy’s emotional victory at the Masters showcased the vulnerability of even elite athletes under pressure. After a poor shot followed by a stunning birdie, his heartfelt collapse on the green highlighted the profound experience of triumph. Amidst nature’s spring… Continue reading
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Redeeming Beelzebub
We have a cat I call Beelzebub. Not her given name, but one I feel she has earned, based on the trail of destruction imprinted on our household furnishings and her penchant for gluttony, which is, after all, what ole… Continue reading
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Living an Interrupted Life
For those wondering how I am, I’m better. The warm February weather helps. There’s also a certain kind of magic in a Margherita pizza, especially when savored al fresco under the slanting rays of a winter sun—my wife Karen’s happiest… Continue reading
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My Old School
I remember walking the halls of my old grade school in my early twenties when I was busily fulfilling the truth of George Bernard Shaw’s old saw, “Youth is wasted on the young.” The halls had mysteriously shrunk but the… Continue reading
Bespoke 