The Cookbook

It was 60 years old, that cookbook. You know, the one with the red checkered cover like a tablecloth. The pages were falling out of the binder. Some pages were greasy with use, others were untouched. I found what I wanted in the section on pancakes and waffles. Yes, exactly what I remembered – mama’s pancakes. I pulled a big bowl . . .

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Biscuits and Gravy

There are no regional foods anymore. Everything is everywhere. You find biscuits and gravy in the motel breakfast room in the far Northwest. You find Vietnamese restaurants on every corner in central New Mexico. Food is no longer seasonal, either. Everything is available all the time. The world is too much with us.

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Orange

Snow closed the road. The radio said there were people working to clear it but we might be sitting by the side of the highway for quite a while. My spouse smiled at the kids. “At least we won’t get scurvy. We have that bag of oranges in the trunk. And a carton of strawberries!”

“And blankets,” I added.

Their only concern was that they couldn’t get a signal on their phones.

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Nuts

How did one of the best foods ever invented by Mother Nature come to signify mental illness? I say we reclaim the word and apply it to nutrition and heart health. Nuts are too important to be associated with an idiot like the current nut at the head of the government.

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Midday Chardonnay

I knew why she insisted on a midday Chardonnay. She was bored. Her life bored her. There was nothing to do alone in her house. If she had a tipple at lunch she would nap after. Take up a few hours. Break up the empty day. Then one day . . .

Please use the open space below to share your first 50 words on the topic “midday Chardonnay.” Thanks to Lucky Life for today’s prompt.

The Switch

It was that time of year. Time to make the switch from hot coffee to iced coffee in the mornings. Iced coffee was cold brewed overnight and ready immediately on waking in the morning. An advantage, you see. Instant caffeine. Hot coffee involved waiting for water to heat, waiting for the coffee to brew in the little french press. Agony, you see. Yes, iced coffee time was a welcome time of year.

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Ripe

strawberry

I watched and watered,
Watched and watered.
Turned leaves and looked
At blooms and tiny white buds.
The plants were tended with
Love and anticipation.

Finally, in late spring,
When the rains had come
And the sun shone bright,
The plants gave back a reward
Ripe and red and sweet.
Worth the wait. Worth the wait.

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The Perfect Number

Many mornings I conduct science experiments to find the perfect number of mugs of coffee. That is, the number of mugs I can drink before my stomach starts to hurt.

If I make one batch of java in my wonderful little French press, I’m only going to get two mugs of coffee that day. No pain. But what if I drink more? Is three the pain threshold? Or is it four? Bring me another refill, waitress, I’m doing research for science.

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Pancakes

Before Eden woke up, Jen whipped up pancakes from scratch. She put berries and slivered almonds on top and warmed up real maple syrup. When it was ready, she carried a cup of aromatic hot coffee into the bedroom. The coffee did its magic and Eden stirred.

“I made breakfast,” Jen said. “Pancakes.”

“Oh,” Eden yawned. “I can’t handle gluten. But you’re really sweet.”

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Burn

The burn searing down my throat told me I’d let the water get too hot before slopping it onto the coffee grounds waiting in the French press. But I sipped again, heat or no heat, because that first mouthful of coffee in the morning was the thing I waited for all night. The reason I get up is that first cup of coffee. Hello, new day, it’s great to see you.

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