Ella arrived at Newark Airport from Bellingham, Washington, in the middle of the night, January 2007. We were there waiting to welcome her, comfort her, and clean her off after a cross-country flight that changed her and our lives forever.
She was a part of our family before we even became a family. Ella joined us before we married, before our son grew up, before our daughter was born, before we added four more dogs.
She was a little chocolate brown labradoodle, who proved her strength and fierceness early on when she brought a dead baby bunny back into our house.
She was, as my wife called her, my “constant companion.” Long before the pandemic and even after it, she quietly sat in my office, hearing every conversation, watching every live shot, knowing all the news before it was reported. She didn’t care what the stories were; she just was happy being with me.
When she did leave my office, she loved walks and car rides. She always knew which button to push to lower the window so she could stick her head out and feel the wind in her face.
Over the years, the rides and walks became more infrequent. She lost her vision and hearing. She developed doggy dementia, which led to seizures and breathing issues. She was in diapers. Her dark chocolate brown coat turned gray. But as much as her life changed, she was most happy in our arms or in our bed, laying with us, licking our faces.
Yet Ella’s good days dwindled, and as tough as it was – and we agonized over it -- it became time to let her go. We did that Thursday, an all-time sad day.
For the third time in just over 18 months, we lost one of our beloved furry friends, our other children. We lost Benny in January 2025, Bailey this March, and now Ella. It’s too much. We now are down to two dogs, Apple and Brady. Our house feels empty and our hearts feel broke. Ella’s pain has been transferred to us.
Ella lived almost 20 years – she would have been 20 in November - and was a part of our graduations, celebrations, happy and sad moments. We know what we had and what she meant. But for all the time we had together -- and it was more than most get -- it still wasn’t enough.
We always will remember and love our little Ellies.
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"We love you. We love your child."
President Trump shares a preview of the heartfelt message he plans to deliver during the dignified transfer of four U.S. service members killed in the war with Iran.
"They're their children. There's no games, no nothing. That's their child," Trump says. "All you can do is throw out your heart."
Trump is expected to attend the solemn ceremony at Dover Air Force Base as the remains of the four fallen service members are returned home and their families are honored.
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The burner under a Chinese restaurant wok puts out 100,000 to 150,000 BTUs of heat. The strongest burner on your home stove tops out near 12,000. Some restaurant jet burners run past 200,000. Roughly ten times your kitchen, sometimes twenty.
At that heat an empty steel wok can climb past 800 degrees Fahrenheit, and food sears the instant it touches the metal. The Cantonese call the result wok hei, the breath of the wok, the smoky charred taste you can almost never pull off at home. It comes from a few things happening at once in seconds: the browning reaction that crusts a steak, the sugars in the sauce caramelizing, and tiny droplets of oil catching fire in the air as the cook throws everything around. One dish off the fire takes about ninety seconds.
That speed is also why a giant order lands in ten minutes. Nothing sits in an oven waiting. Every ingredient is washed, cut, and portioned before you ever call, so once the ticket prints the cook is assembling, not prepping. Each dish hits the flame, gets tossed together, and slides into the box still steaming.
The wok's whole design traces back to one problem: saving fuel. Wood and charcoal ran expensive across much of old China, and a thin round metal bowl dropped into the flame heats faster and wastes less than a flat pan sitting on top of one. Cooks chopped everything small, because more surface area meant less time over the fire, and they learned to work in fast bursts of high heat.
For most of Chinese history, stir-frying wasn't even the common way to cook. Boiling and steaming came first, partly because the oil stir-frying needs was costly. The technique took off in the late Ming dynasty, the 1500s and 1600s, when firewood near the growing cities got expensive enough that cooking fast and cheap really mattered. Less fuel burned per meal, and busy city trade rewarded the speed. A money-saving trick slowly became the signature of an entire cuisine.
Steel melts around 2,500 degrees, so the food never gets remotely close. But the instinct behind that tweet is right. The reason your takeout shows up in ten minutes, scorching, is a four-hundred-year-old fix for an energy problem, still roaring under a wok tonight.
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