Kate

“flops.” “Exactly,” she says, satisfied. We call this style of childhood nostalgia the catalogue of grievances.”
― Catherine Newman, Sandwich

“Here’s what foragers know: Most of what grows is neither delicious nor toxic. There’s a whole world between what we call the choice edibles—the hazelnuts and porcini and black raspberries—and, say, the destroying angel mushroom that will shut down all your organ systems after a single nibble. You can eat the grass, the lichen, the inner bark of most trees, a thousand kinds of leaves. Not that you would, but you could. So much of privileged adulthood seems to take place here, in the space between the soaring highs and the killing disasters. It’s just plain life, beautiful in its familiar subtlety, its decency and dailiness”
― Catherine Newman, Sandwich

“But also? Can we just, like, call it at some point? We’re sticking shit up our twats and the guys are taking boner pills—I mean, could we take it all as a sign to just, like, give it a rest?”
― Catherine Newman, Sandwich

“It's a very particular time in your life, when someone you love is dying. The world doesn't stop for you. We know this, but in our hearts we are shocked. We are like famous people who say: But don't you know who I am? Except we want to say, But don't you know what I'm going through? How can you speak to me like that when my mother is dying?”
― Liane Moriarty, Here One Moment