I have a 1932 copy of The Joy of Cooking that's being held together at the spine with duct tape. The book, like so many things my mother gave me or tried to impart to me, has become a cherished item only years after her death.
I wasn't that close to my mother. I know she loved me very much, but she was a talented woman who was bored to death with mothering (I have two older siblings) by the time my twin brother and I came along. I can dig it. I would have had more kids myself, but if I had to sing "Wheels on The Bus" one more time, someone was gonna get hurt.
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