Hi there. My name’s Rebecca Jackson.

It took 35 years to put my daydreams to use. I spend most of my day thinking about what I’d like to eat and the latest basketball game. Food and basketball are interrupted by a healthy smattering of thoughts about the state of our world, how to reduce suffering, politics, friends, family, etc.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

My dad was a Culinary Institute of America-trained chef-turned food salesperson, and my mom’s an incredible cook. When my dad wasn’t working, he played or coached soccer, basketball, touch football, or golf.

A neurologist diagnosed my dad with ALS when I was 13. My mom and I were his primary caregivers, so I learned firsthand how to die and, in turn, how to live. During those years, my extended family gathered at our house every Monday for dinner. We laughed and grieved over lemony chicken piccata, Caesar salad, and Swedish pancakes. And in those moments, we didn’t feel alone.

My partner, Jonathan, and I love to host family and friends. We laugh and tell stories and grieve with them over chili, falafel, and pumpkin bread. In those moments, we don’t feel alone.

We live in a land of plenty halfway between Seattle and Vancouver. And I share Jonathan with my sister-wife, Evie. (One of us plays no sexual role in the relationship.)