I have one brewing, but it's a downer, and I dunno if I want to spew it out just yet. We'll see.

I wanted to do something about nursing for this topic, but my brain is mushy and I can't write.

Never stopped me.

-t, insent. Only about a chapter and a half new, but it's what I got.

(love is) What I got. Remember that.

Er. Sorry.

backflung, Erin.

As I'm getting closer to completion, I keep feeling like everything is completely wrong, and when my editor gets it, he'll make me give the money back because it's ALL WRONG.

Does this happen to anyone else?

All. The. Time.

But it won't actually happen.

Connie, the next time my mom makes my grandma's fudge, I'll have to sned some to you. It is quintessential grandma fudge. My mom is not the world's greatest cook, but her fudge fuckin' rocks.

Fudge . . .

I will avoid restarting the holy war of nuts vs. no nuts.

My mother grew up during the Depression, too, and learned the myriad ways of hamburger. Unfortunately, that included that king of DisComfort food, slumgullion (however it's spelled). Hamburger, macaroni, a can of stewed tomatoes. That's it. Mother was not a devotee of the spice rack, all things considered. I cannot bear stewed tomatoes. Well, honestly, I can't stand tomatoes close to their natural state in any case.

Also in the DisComfort food, ham bone and beans. I don't know why, I love ham, and beans are pretty neutral to me, but something about the way it smelled just turned my stomach.

Still, I have the last laugh, because I was always teased for meticulously slicing off all bits of visible fat from my pork chops.

April 2, 2001

We sat on the steps letting the mosquitoes bite us. Our friend was dead. The coroner was on his way; we weren’t to touch anything. It was too soon to reminisce about his life or rage at his death. We all sat silently, shocked.

I did what I always do when there’s a crisis. I made tea – hot and sweet. I don’t know if anyone drank it, but we all clutched our cups as we stared into space and didn’t speak.

It’s not exactly food, it’s not exactly comfort, but a hot cup of tea can be just the thing.

-t, you've inspired me. Mine is a little long, but since noone's counting...

The Way the French Do It

“Let me show you how the French slice it.” My grandfather takes my fork and knife out of my 5-year-old hands and slices into the fried, egg-soaked bread that’s covered butter and syrup. Four times from top to bottom. He turns the plate and cuts again. Twenty-five perfect, bite sized pieces. When he finished, there was a piece on the fork. He popped the fork into his mouth as I laughed. "That one got stuck."

The morning after he died, I had French toast. Four times from top to bottom. Turn the plate. Four times again. The last piece stuck. I set it to the side, and ate the rest, leaving the first piece for grampa.