I love pie, and always have, soggy crusts and all. But due to mounting heath concerns, pie and I are no longer on a first name basis. One way to enjoy all the yummy fruity delights of pie without inhaling the buttery pastry and cups of sugar is to skip straight to the fruit. This recipe makes great use of two of my favorites – ripe peaches and fresh raspberries. It’s wonderful with a little vanilla fro-yo.     Grilled Peaches with Fresh Raspberry Sauce Adapted from Bon Appétit | August 2007 Yield: Makes 6 servings 2 1/4 cups (lightly packed) fresh raspberries (about 13 ounces) 3 tablespoons water 3 tablespoons sugar 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice 1 tablespoon unsalted butter 6 medium-size ripe but firm peaches, halved, pitted Puree 2 1/4 cups fresh raspberries along with 3 tablespoons water in food processor until puree is smooth. Strain raspberry puree through fine-mesh strainer, pressing on solids to release as much liquid as possible; discard solids in strainer. Stir in 3 tablespoons sugar and 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice until blended. Fresh raspberry sauce can be made 1 day ahead. Cover and refrigerate. Prepare barbecue (medium heat). Melt butter and brush peach halves all over with it. Grill until tender, about 8 minutes, turning occasionally. Serve with sauce. Top with vanilla frozen yogurt for an amazing summer time dessert. If you liked this post, please do us the further boon of Liking the Fierce and Nerdy page on FaceBook. Also, we’re giving great stream on Twitter, so do give us follow. featured image credit:...

When we write we are speaking, in print, in the voice of whatever we are. I find myself in a weird place right now. As I enter my fiftieth year, having come through two years of chaos and crisis in more than one arena of my life, I feel so changed that I’m not even quite sure that I know the sound of my own voice anymore. I feel the tectonic plates of my internal landscape have shifted so drastically that I’m on the other side of a faultline from the old “Hippie Squared,” and now, when I open my mouth to speak (when I hold my fingers poised above the keyboard), what comes out sounds like a squawk to me, a croak, a squeak. I hear my voice breaking. At forty-nine years old, you no longer expect to hear your voice break. Almost half a century old, and I feel like I’m speaking with a fledgling’s voice. I have to try out my old wings as if they’re new. They creak and moan with arthritis, yet it feels like I’m just learning how to unfold them and fly. I’m not even sure they’re not vestigial. I’m no longer even sure that flight is possible. But I feel forced to try. So yes, I’ve been through some hard stuff. I’m hardly alone in this, of course. The rough times are widespread. In my case: Grief. Layoff. Unemployment. Fighting to hold onto our house. Family health problems. The toll that all of these can take on our most intimate relationships. Hurting my loved one, terribly. Getting hurt. So who am I now–entering my 50th year, seemingly on the other side of the worst of it? On the earlier side of that faultline was a young...