Andrew Taylor-Troutman

A praise song for Chapel Hill Toffee, the Carolina blue box that begs to be opened, revealing the shiny plastic that contains — O wonder of wonders! — the delicacy of pecans and dark chocolate.

This year, I’ll turn 44 years old. I hope to live at least another four decades but, one day, I’ll die. I want to be cremated, and I don’t have a particular place in mind for my ashes. But I want a memorial bench.

My daughter wanted something to remember her first Tar Heel men’s basketball game by, and she set her mind on a new stuffed bear, adding to her sizeable collection.

Imagine you are ten years old and on a rec league basketball team. You are all skinny elbows and knees and high tops. You dribble behind your back and between your legs and lose the ball out of bounds.

So many exceptional people work exceptionally hard every day, and especially so this time of year, to make the everyday possible and the holiday even more special.

“I wrote a good omelet…and ate a hot poem…after loving you.” The author of those delightful words, poet and professor Nikki Giovanni, died on Monday.

I have a new book! It’s a significant milestone, even though I’m not at the top of any bestseller lists. I’d love to take a moment and tell you about it.

When they were younger, my kids would interrupt the grace before meals by exclaiming, “Amen! Dig...

‘Tis soup season, and writer Padraig O Tauma recommends adding poems to your recipes as part of the preparation process. He is a brilliant poet; plus, his Irish accent would be melodious even if reciting the fine print of a legal contract.

I’ll start with the tree leaves, especially the golds and scarlets beckoning in the breeze, and the way the sunlight illuminates the back of them like a thousand glow sticks.