My mother and I were recently watching a Top Chef rerun. In this particular episode, one of the contestants scrambled to assemble his dish, an unparalleled entrée featuring perfectly sliced Kobe beef carpaccio accompanied with a boysenberry gastrique. My mother, a Bangladeshi immigrant, just could not comprehend why anyone would voluntarily eat raw beef, thinly sliced or otherwise. I initially scoffed at her simplistic palette, wanting to deliver the condescending comment resting on my tongue, aching to correct her uninformed opinion.

I took a ride along the subway this afternoon. The air was cold, a bit crisp—out of place for spring in Philadelphia.

Those things we've put so much security in — house, relationship, money — are beyond the reach of many post-mods.