Featured
I never liked Springerle as a kid. I mean, come on…no filling…no icing…no chocolate?! You call that a cookie?
There he stood, vodka-soaked cherry offal sliding from his head.
A deep and abiding respect for my beloved and our forty years together, as well as a healthy dose of self-preservation kept my baser instincts in check: I neither laughed nor ran to get my phone for the photo op.