“Chocolate squares (unsweetened), check.
Flour, butter, check.
Sugar, eggs, check.
Heavy cream, check.
Bottle of red, check.”
Samantha sighed as she mentally checked off her grocery list. The essentials only. She didn’t have time for non-essentials, like milk or cereal or pasta. She swiped each container with a Lysol wipe as she unloaded her grocery cart at the store, and then swiped the seven items again when unloading the grocery bag once she reached home.
Safe. Continue reading
As my mom’s life slowly unravels – her brain forgetting my name, her thoughts floating in a vast ocean of faded blues – I wish I could thank her for her cakes. Continue reading
I know this, even though few believe me.
We live in different time warps. Continue reading
The day begins with anticipation, which makes me chuckle.
Gone is the time when I looked forward to a young man arriving at the doorstep for a date. Now, I’m anxious for the arrival of a 7-year-old boy and hours of Uno and giggles.
Sure enough, 90 minutes into my grandson’s visit, the score is Madre 540, genius boy 35.
The winner is the one with the lowest score.
This kid is killing me, particularly as he rubs his hands before each new game and says gleefully, “The cards just love me, Madre,” with a shrug and a wink. Continue reading
This past weekend, I brought the wrong cookies to my mother, and I attended a Writers’ Conference in Delaware.
Believe it or not, these two disparate comments belong together.
Flattered to be invited to attend and speak at the Word Shark Writing Conference organized by Karen Sanderson, editor, writer and blogger, I accepted after realizing I could combine the trip with a visit to my mom, who lives just a half hour away.
A few days before the conference, I worked on my presentation while also baking my mother’s favorite chocolate chip butterscotch oatmeal bars. My mom doesn’t have a big sweet tooth, but for some reason she absolutely loves my bars.
At 5:30 a.m. on the day of my long train ride to Delaware, I grabbed the special bars from the freezer, where I had stored them. Seven hours later I gratefully unloaded my bag with the special treats, basking in my mom’s gratefulness.
But as I pulled the bars out of their freezer bag onto one of her antique flowery dainty china plates, I gasped. Continue reading