her retired husband grunted instead of talked--she never stopped talking, maybe to make up for him. she could make anything grow. her silver hair was always a little messy,& she hadn't given up dreams of still becoming martha stewart.
I'm a cook. And I write, sometimes about food, mostly poems. I make stuff. I get lost. I'm worried about vanishing bees, melting icecaps, the decrease of civility in the world, seedless watermelons, and whether there will be enough time for me to get it all right.
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