My sister left a few days ago after a really great visit. We went out, we visited with my kids and grand kids. We saw a show, did some shopping, ignored our diets and basically had some quality sister time.
It was fabulous.
We also talked about family. Hers, mine, and ours. For even though we have always referred to each other as ‘sister’ — we have different dads. Her father passed away when she was a kid and our mom remarried my father when my sister was 13. Three years later she was a fairly horrified junior in high school when the world found out our mother was pregnant (with me). Because back in 1959 no one wanted proof their mother was having sex with any one. But I digress.
The most enlightening bit of information she shared with me this visit was the fact our mother was a pretty awful cook.
Why is that so important? Let me tell you a story that was ‘feed’ to me my entire childhood.
Rumor had it I was an incredibly picky eater when I was a kid. I literally lived on mashed potatoes. Everyone knew it. Epic tales are told about it. My disgust of food was legend.
Then my mother died. My father’s cooking was completely awful and simply inedible. When I was home I survived on Banquet TV dinners. However, I would come to spend a great deal of time at my Aunt’s farm and I would eat any and…
