I have fond memories of frying bologna with Mom in the kitchen but I cannot do that anymore. Not that good in the long run it turns out, eating fried bologna regularly that is.
I have to comment about this sense of a loved one's presence when performing a common task that our latest poetry submission has brought to mind. Every time I peel a carrot I am reminded of my mom standing next to me by the sink with small knife in hand, asking me as a young married woman, how careful was I in removing the dirty skin, or whether I bothered at all. Is there something about vegetables that revoke these memories? Could it have been the constant appeal to eating them that mothers in showing their love through generations insist upon?
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