Exhaling Life

Sunglasses began as utility: a practical defense against glare, wind, and the indignities of squinting. Then fashion claimed them. Frames grew bolder, lenses darker, silhouettes more deliberate, until sunglasses became less an accessory than a small act of self-invention—the quickest way to suggest mystery, polish, or studied indifference. I lose sunglasses the way other people lose packs of gum: casually, repeatedly, and without explanation. After enough expensive disappearances and appropriate mourning periods, I now wear budget-friendly pairs almost exclusively. These 12 curated sunglasses offer the pleasure of a fashion statement without requiring a period of mourning when one inevitably vanishes. The trouble with a small indulgence is that shipping can cost nearly as much as the thing itself—unless, of course, one reaches the minimum. To spare us that particular absurdity, all 12 were curated from Amazon Prime. JOOPIN Oversized Sunglasses ZENOTTIC Retro Square Polarized Sunglasses...

Los Angeles has proudly shouted ICE Out. The slogan is morally uncomplicated. Immigration is not. At the Dodger's Stadium, April 2025 I cannot join the chant—not because I excuse the Trump Administration’s conduct, but because I believe in the rule of law. It must bind everyone: those living in this country without legal status, the officers charged with enforcing immigration law, and the federal government that gives those officers their authority. Removal can be a lawful consequence of lacking legal status when it is ordered and carried out through lawful process. During the Obama Administration, more than three million people were formally removed from the United States. More than two million others were returned, generally without formal removal orders. Large-scale immigration enforcement is not new to this country, nor is it unique to Donald Trump. What is different—and indefensible—is a federal government violating the rule of law in the name of enforcing it. I beli...

Strawberries are generous little things. They arrive bright, fragrant, and almost too pretty to be practical, then quietly offer vitamin C, fiber, and the kind of berry-rich plant compounds that make a glass of pink milk feel more thoughtful than indulgent. Whole milk gives the drink its body: protein, calcium, and that soft, creamy structure skim milk could only dream of having. Peppermint leaves bring a cool lift and a gentle nod toward digestion, while Manuka honey adds floral sweetness with antibacterial activity, and antioxidant and anti-inflammatory compounds. This is not a medicinal drink, and thank goodness. It can be a wellness drink without becoming annoying about it. Watch out, Erewhon. I use the Breville 3X Bluicer® Pro Blender & Juicer , which blends it into something smooth and faintly frothy, but any blender will do. INGREDIENTS [serves 1] 1 cup whole milk 9 ounces strawberries, hulled 10 peppermint leaves 1 tablespoon Manuka honey Add everything to the blender a...

In Thai and Lao kitchens, Pad Mee points broadly to stir-fried noodles: rice noodles loosened in a hot pan, glossed with sauce, sharpened by aromatics, and adjusted according to region, household, occasion, and whoever is standing closest to the wok. Ceramic bowl was wheel-thrown and glazed by me. Its history does not arrive with one neat origin story, which is part of its charm. Like many Southeast Asian noodle dishes, Pad Mee sits at the intersection of local rice culture, Chinese-influenced noodle cookery, and the everyday reality of feeding people quickly and well. Before a dish becomes famous enough to acquire fandom, it is usually just a meal. That is where Pad Mee is most interesting. It exists in variations: some sweeter, some darker, some spicier, some closer to Lao-style caramelized noodles served at gatherings, others tied to Thai regional cooking. Pad Mee Korat, from Nakhon Ratchasima, is one well-known branch of the family, but it is not the whole tree. Pad Mee’s real gl...

Before the clutch became the red-carpet punctuation mark of a gown, it had a more domestic ancestor: the reticule, a small handheld drawstring bag that emerged when women’s hidden tie-on pockets began losing their usefulness beneath slimmer, sheerer late-eighteenth- and early-nineteenth-century dresses. What had once been tucked under petticoats was suddenly carried in public, and privacy became ornament: silk, velvet, beadwork, embroidery, a little theater of necessity held in the hand. The bag was never only a container; it was a social adjustment, a concession to fashion’s old habit of taking away utility and selling it back as elegance. Yoko Ono: Music of Mind at The Broad The modern clutch came into its own in the 1920s and 1930s, when evening moved faster, dresses grew sleeker, and women needed only the glamorous minimum: powder, mirror, lipstick, perhaps money, perhaps not. Tiny dance purses, Art Deco shapes, celluloid and Bakelite, metalwork and beading turned the bag into an o...

When Dr. Moon, a pain management specialist, told me about Dad’s wish, it was not the first time I had heard it. A few days earlier, Mom had told me that Dad wanted to be transferred from the hospital to hospice. I did not quite understand what hospice meant at the time. Between that conversation with Mom and the one with Dr. Moon, I had watched Dad take about twenty steps with the support of a walker and the assistance of a physical therapist. After seeing him come out of critical condition, I took those steps as a sign of recovery. So I was surprised when Dr. Moon told me that Dad had expressed his wish to end all medical treatments and go peacefully. I had been struggling with the continuation of his medical treatment. Three days after I wrote Will Love Give Us the Courage to Let Our Dad Go? , Dad passed away peacefully, as though he had simply fallen asleep, with a morphine drip erasing the pain that had once dominated him. He was eighty years old and had spent the last six years o...

I believe the cruelest thing a human can experience is burying their child. While the only thing guaranteed in life, from the moment we take our first breath to our last, is death, for a parent to bury a child is not the natural progression of life. For more than six years, I have watched my Dad go through rounds of chemotherapy, years of dialysis, emergency room visits, and hospitalizations where doctors advised against further medical treatment—until my brother vehemently fought for it. If you ever need a medical advocate, you should hire him. Perhaps it is the lawyer in him that convinces doctors to shift their medical opinions. My Dad asked, and my brother passionately advocated for him for days so he could receive his first round of chemotherapy more than six years ago, which the doctor at first refused to administer since it was an unusual treatment for his autoimmune disease. He would have passed away within a matter of months without it. He did squats after his first chemothera...