She stood in the kitchen, staring. She couldn’t choose. A banana? An orange? Some strawberries? Why were there so many choices? She couldn’t think it through. Maybe some coffee would start her brain – shake it into deciding mode. But there was no coffee. The pantry was devoid, completely devoid, of coffee.
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She was straight when she made the cake, but by the time it was cooled down and ready to frost she’d shared a couple of joints with Sal from next door. Adding the frosting felt rather creative and joyful as she did it. Later when she looked at it, it looked done by a kindergarten child and not creative at all.
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It was her first Christmas alone. She was a survivor when everyone else in the family was gone. Tom and Janet from work invited her over for Christmas dinner. Staying home for a good cry sounded better, but she forced herself to go. The first thing she saw when she entered their apartment was a tray full of fudge and divinity and powdered sugar covered cookies. Just like her mom always made at Christmas time. She . . .
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Happy holiday remembrances usually involve the smells of wonderful things cooking and baking while mothers or grandmothers labored in the kitchen. The rest of the family waited eagerly for that announcement, “Dinner’s ready,” so they could crowd together around a table and praise the food and eat too much. If you had a happy family, and happy memories, you’re really remembering the love. Do that. Remember the love.
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Yesterday was all about celebrating how proud we are to be American. Blowing up stuff and eating barbecue with the family is as all American as it gets. Please pass the watermelon.
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I remember standing beside my mother, watching pancakes on a griddle. She explained how you can tell when the griddle is hot enough to start cooking. How to tell if the pancakes are ready to turn over. How to tell if they are cooked through after you turn them. When to turn the heat down on the griddle. I can still cook a mean pancake. Thanks mom.
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What do you call honey when it turns solid? Crystallized, maybe? Whatever. I took a big, old can of crystallized honey out of the back of the pantry. I was thinking I would drizzle some of it on my cereal. Well, that wasn’t gonna happen. I stood there staring at that honey like a fool – like, “what am I supposed to do with this stuff?” Then . . .
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“Can you live with a roomie?” I asked. I like being alone and don’t often understand how people can enjoy having others around all the time – especially strangers who move in with you as roommates. But he was confident. “Yes, of course,” he said. He looked at me as if I were . . .
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Somehow in my family a tradition of having a cake from Baskin Robbins got started. I generally have to go buy one for myself on my birthday, and this year I picked the one my friend dubbed “a sperm cake.” Really, I’ll never be able to look at a balloon the same way again. Happy birthday to me. The sperm were delicious.
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This is New Mexico apple pie from the Pie Town Cafe in New Mexico. Pie Town is a tiny place on highway 60. Because of the town’s strange name, 3 cafes operate along the roadside where people make a living selling pie. This pie contains a layer of mild green chili and piñon nuts. It’s delicious, too. If you ever have a reason to drive across New Mexico on highway 60, plan a stop in Pie Town.
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