My mom’s in town for the week. We’ve been eating well. Very well. Drinking plenty of glasses of wine and sharing stories we’ve probably told a million times. They’re stories that make our family unique. Stories about my brother chasing my sister down the beach declaring, “sweet revenge,” with a plastic sword in his hand. Stories of sitting in ant piles and falling off my scooter. My dad picked every last pebble out of my knee. Stories of listening to my Big Bird tape player sing “I wanna go home” over and over again. Stories that no one else quite understands except my family. They’re ours. Read more

My mom is the first to say she doesn’t like to bake. I’m still not sure where my love obsession came from. Somehow my sister picked up the habit too—proof. But despite my mom’s distaste for baking, she makes a mean cobbler. In the summers it’s filled with the ripest of peaches. And through the winters it’s filled with the blackest of blackberries. Always topped with ice cream of course. This tastes like home to me. Read more

 
 
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