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30 November 2014



When I was a kid we spent Sunday afternoons and evenings with my grandparents. My grandmother was a great cook and, even then, I was drawn to the kitchen -- the place where all of the magic happened. She made mashed potatoes every day (to the point, back when my dad was a kid, and she didn't make mashed potatoes for dinner one night, my dad asked [in a bit of a panic], "Where's the mashed potatoes?").

Whenever I was in her kitchen while she was making dinner she would give me a slice of raw potato. To this day, whenever I make mashed potatoes I eat a slice of raw potato and think of her.



Yeah, a sad day and a dark month and I totally get you. Nonny lives on in your heart and in your life every day, and that's for always. A huge comfort and yet not. Why is it always like that?

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