Very true about the chaos of unpacking after a move. I swear moving proves that it is somehow possible for objects to mysteriously move from one sealed box to another while being transported.
Reading your newsletter on Mother's Day, and about how some people have books handed down from their parents or grandparents, made me miss my mother, who passed away nearly three years ago, even more than I was. Not because my mother was a good cook. On the contrary, as wonderful as she was, my mom was a terrible cook. Awful. Worse than awful. Though I know at some point she had cookbooks, by the time I graduated college, those had all been given away, so I didn't have the benefit others do of having a cookbook, perhaps annotated with notes, being passed along to me. What I do have, though, are adult memories of the disasters of the few times my mother did try cooking. These incidents usually ended with buzzing smoke alarms, blown-up microwave ovens, and lots of smoke - almost always followed by a very silent dinner eaten at a restaurant. In the moment, some of these events were far from fun. Now, they are the stuff of joyful, laugh-filled family lore.
Sorry about the garble! I’ve noticed my new WiFi can be a little hiccupy. I’ll proof read more closely.
Very true about the chaos of unpacking after a move. I swear moving proves that it is somehow possible for objects to mysteriously move from one sealed box to another while being transported.
Reading your newsletter on Mother's Day, and about how some people have books handed down from their parents or grandparents, made me miss my mother, who passed away nearly three years ago, even more than I was. Not because my mother was a good cook. On the contrary, as wonderful as she was, my mom was a terrible cook. Awful. Worse than awful. Though I know at some point she had cookbooks, by the time I graduated college, those had all been given away, so I didn't have the benefit others do of having a cookbook, perhaps annotated with notes, being passed along to me. What I do have, though, are adult memories of the disasters of the few times my mother did try cooking. These incidents usually ended with buzzing smoke alarms, blown-up microwave ovens, and lots of smoke - almost always followed by a very silent dinner eaten at a restaurant. In the moment, some of these events were far from fun. Now, they are the stuff of joyful, laugh-filled family lore.