gina harlow
Writes
The grower of trees, the gardener, the man born to farming,
whose hands reach into the ground and sprout, to him the soil is a divine drug......
Wendell Berry
About
Gina Harlow is a writer and former marketing consultant living in California, but who calls many places home. She's co-authored a nationally syndicated food column as well as her own blog. Most of what she writes about is true.
She loves to grow, cook, and eat food, and ponder the whys and why nots of many things.
Gina Harlow is a writer and former marketing consultant living in California, but who calls many places home. She's co-authored a nationally syndicated food column as well as her own blog. Most of what she writes about is true.
She loves to grow, cook, and eat food, and ponder the whys and why nots of many things.
With his prayers said, and feeling much better, but suffering exactly as much, and perhaps a little more, he leaned against the wood of the bow and began, mechanically, to work the fingers of his left hand.
Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea
Essays
I Have Cat Stevens, published at The Hunger Journal
In the rise and fall of his voice, in the treble and bass of the notes, Stevens tells me of a world I've yet to know. But at fifteen, it's a promise and not a warning. Read more here
You Too Can Be Beautiful, published at HerStry
Driven by forces I was too young to name, I brushed my lids and coated my lips. I wanted to float down the halls of junior high and hear my name hollered sweetly. I wanted what Twiggy had. But fantasies aside, I wanted what Linda had, and I thought I could buy it. Read more here
What's This Life For, published at The RavensPerch
Love is such a simple word, but it carries so much heft. Why is it sometimes so easy and glorious and other times so difficult and painful but all still called love. Whatever the case, I knew I had hurt him. Read more here
Boomtown, published at Medium
That is the thing about life, most times we can't bear the fullness of it as it rolls out. Then we are left with a memory, plying the sandy bottoms for the gold we let slip through. Read more here
My Childhood in the California Sun Gave Me Skin Cancer and It Was Worth It, published at Narratively
What little I knew of the world, I knew I lived minutes from the water. I understood this singular thing as my birthright – the beach, the beach, the beach. Read more here
Excerpt from Finding Home, Austin American Statesman
In between our running around, we pulled shifts at the Tiger Den Cafe, a little bit of a place named after the Dripping Springs high school football team. In that hot greasy kitchen, that was not as big as a California Closet, we took over the duties of running the place. I cooked some, but mostly I was the waitress. When I served sausage and eggs to the Lions Club at 6:30 a.m. while fully grown ranchers sang My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean, I thought I had seen it all.
Excerpt from Hot Seat, Alamo Bay Writers' Anthology
In swampish air I steep like a soggy teabag. In the company of cars and trucks, with gravel and shell under foot, I sit in a parking lot by the bay. Pen and paper in hand, I watch as other hopefuls gather with me, fledglings like me who feel nudged, even urged, to fill in blank spaces. Feet away, the shrimp boats rest in the harbor. Their long dark nets hang like mourning veils from their riggings, and they, too, look wilted. But like all boats, they are splended as they shine in the sun. They, like us, are a group of storytellers with much to confess.
Excerpt from Love Bites, self-published on Peaches and Prosciutto
So in mid-February, when there's just a tease of the warmth about to come, its not about seared scallops and foie gras, but about sharing a booth instead of a table. It's about crusty bread and gooey cheese, and breaking it together with those who make you feel more alive. It's about eating something special, yes, but it's not about the meal. Because the food is just a metaphor for the intense awareness of what leaves us breathless in this life. It's about the complete appreciation of every bite of something luxurious, so you don't need course after course. It's about how the taste of it merely accentuates the human condition we have to be moved to tears, to joy, to something that cant' be described. Because the food is simply an exclamation point to the proclamation, "I love."
Flash Nonfiction
The Red Dress, published at Janus Literary
But Jeanette said that was the dress you would have wanted. She went to Macy’s and bought two, as if you were still here to pick. There was the red one, a color not of roses, but of lights, and signs, and costumes. And the other a cream, with dainty peach flowers, which looked more like you to me. Read more here
Flash Fiction
I Need You So, published at Roi Fainèant Press
Now we see Brooke drawn every week to these early hours of Thursday and the dead end of her street. This night we see Lilly exit the car as Brooke watches. As Lilly strolls home, hips swaying, arms swinging in the furl of her robe, we see her stop under the streetlight and look into Brooke’s window. She can’t see me, Brooke thinks. Yet we see Lilly standing there as if she’s waiting for Brooke, just like on Friday mornings, and we all know she does. Read more here