Archive for Brenda Miller

A Toast to Brenda Miller

Posted in favorites with tags , , , on June 13, 2011 by The Editors

 

At the beginning of Brenda Miller’s essay, “Our Daily Toast,” she sums it up:

Okay, I admit it: I have an unhealthy preoccupation with toast. Do I eat toast socially? Yes. Do I eat toast when alone? Yes. Do I lie about my toast consumption? Yes. Do I hide the evidence of toast consumption? Yes, Yes. Do I make up lame excuses for toast consumption? Why yes, yes I do.

Miller won the coveted Pushcart Prize for this essay, and we think it well deserved. We’d also like to point out that though some may say that this essay is a reflection the author’s relationships as viewed through the lens of toast, it might also be said more plainly (sans nuts, spices, fancy grains, or fats) that this essay is an examination of the author’s decades long addiction to toast.

Not that there is anything wrong with that. Plenty of people, present company included, do battle with this particular addiction day in and day out. In fact, we would venture to say that a day without toast is like a day without sunshine. Never mind we don’t actually see much of the sun in the Pacific Northwest. We still know if it’s there or not. So, don’t mess with our toast.

Honestly, though, Junk loves this piece, which extols the many and varied virtues of toast, and invites the reader to consider their own life spent in the grainy company of the toasted loaf. We’re happy to bite, and we hope you’ll nosh along.

Read Brenda Miller’s “Our Daily Toast.”

Swerve by Brenda Miller

Posted in favorites with tags , , , , on March 14, 2010 by Editors

Not every addiction involves chemicals. In “Swerve,” Brenda Miller offers a lovely example of a relationship that’s not quite right in tight, tense, beautiful prose.

A  pound of marijuana in the trunk and a faulty brake light—any minute the cops might have pulled us over, so you were edgy already, and then I ran over that piece of stray lumber without even slowing down. Thunk, thunk, and then the wood spun behind us on the road. Your dark face dimmed even darker, and you didn’t yell at first, only turned to look out the window, and I made the second mistake: What’s wrong?

Read more at Brevity.

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