One day, we ran out of the coffee pods for our coffee maker. We had our French press, but the coffee grinder broke too. I heard clattering in the kitchen. Looking in, I saw my son, six-years-old, standing on a wine box, a mortar and pestle in his hands, grinding the coffee beans himself. “I’m making you coffee, Mom.”
Sometimes I feel like I could hand grind coffee for the entire book world, but nobody is going to run up and kiss me.
And since you can’t kiss me, you could go to Words Are Art, and see the CD I did the cover and inserts for.