Halloween Candy

This was written for a 500-Word Snatch on Second Life… in 30 minutes.

The first day I remember it getting cold in Orlando was almost always on Halloween night. We’d have our flimsy costumes ready weeks in advance, then the night of Trick or Treating, we’d have to bundle up, covering our lovely Japanese kimonos or flowy Princess dresses. Not fun!

But we didn’t have to hide our pillowcases we’d hope to fill with candy that night.

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I was a fat kid. I am a fat adult. I loved Halloween! It was a day that lasted for weeks (if I played my portioning out decently). Candy, candy, candy.

This was in the olden days, back when we wandered alone, sans parents, always after dark, not before. We knocked on doors for a 5 block radius, knowing almost every person who opened a door. (Can you imagine that today? Ha!) This was also before the health food kick started encouraging folks to offer “healthy” treats… “Garbage” I would have thought in my youth.

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No, give me the Snickers, the Milky Way, the Three Musketeers. Chocolate, please. And more chocolate, please. Candy pumpkins were alright, candy corn, boring… Smarties? Well we could eat those in about 40 seconds. I marvel today we got candy cigarettes in our Halloween pillowcase. My kids didn’t believe me when I told them about them. “True stuff,” I said!

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After gathering the night’s haul, we’d go back to our respective homes, find a space big enough to hold the largesse and dump the goods out, ooh-ing and ah-ing at what we saw spilling out of the cotton sack. My eyes quickly assessed the haul and even midair, could pick what was going right into my mouth, what was going into my bowl for later and what was being tossed into the trash.

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Once the separations had been made, mom would come around to see what we had. Even if she was hovering over my head a mere 5 minutes after coming in from outside, I would have already hidden much of my stash, knowing she would want some of the goods herself. I was a piggy girl; hoarding food was normal for me. I learned it from mom.

When mom had moved on to the other kids, I began unwrapping what I’d chosen to eat before bed. Unwrapping the crinkly papers, I barely tasted what I popped into my mouth as I swallowed and was cramming in the next chocolate bar, my fingers having barely let go of the wrapper I’d just pulled off.

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Every Halloween, I was sick to my stomach by the time I was sent to bed, an hour past our usual bedtime. I’d lay between the sheets writhing in pain, but kept my mouth shut about it lest mom give me a lecture about trying to eat so much so fast. I knew, every year, when I sat down with my candy, still in my rumpled costume, that in about 20 minutes I would be so sick to my stomach, but I could not help myself with this candy free-for-all.

Yeah, Halloween. Delicious holiday tinged with a bit of a stomach-ache. Isn’t that like many holidays anymore?

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Diabetic Discourse: Needles

I’ve been on insulin for a year now.

At first, I was on the kind you keep in the refrigerator and draw up in a syringe with a needle. Good lord, those are pain in the ass.

Not having one clue of all the options, my Insurance Liaison asked if I would rather have pens. I asked what the difference was and she said, “They don’t need to be refrigerated.”

SOLD!

Insulin Pens

I got the pens and loved them right away.

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I keep them in my top drawer with all my pens.

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See the insulin pens? Wayyyy at the bottom.

I am on both Lantus (long-acting insulin) and NovoLog (more immediate insulin), so poke myself 4 times a day.

Now, as a midwife, I know to draw up solutions with one needle, then change needles and use that new one for the injection. Pushing the needle through the rubber at the top of the vial flattens the tip slightly and when you put that in the leg or arm, it hurts more.

But when I use the lancet on my finger to test my blood glucose before giving myself insulin…

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… I (lazily) use and re-use them. They are annoying to change  (4-6 times a day), so it’s just easier to leave it in the mechanism each time. I know, I know… beyond the lazy factor, not too sanitary, either. Especially when I am supposed to be worrying about infections. (I hear you! CHANGE THE LANCETS!)

So when I got the needles for the pens, I thought, “I can be lazy with these needles, too.”

And I was.

Changing Needles

The one thing  with the pens that was different from the refrigerated insulin was the injections freakin’ hurt! It wasn’t unusual to bleed a little after the injection and I also got plenty of bruises.

I don’t recall the reasoning behind it, but a couple of weeks ago, I changed the needle after each injection. Was I experimenting? I have no idea. But let me tell you, when I began changing the needle each time…

… the pain upon injection vanished! The bleeding and bruises? Gone.

What a dork I was re-using the needles.

Clearly, with each stab into my flesh, it flattened those really thin needles enough to damage the skin and tissue.

My Take-Away

Don’t be lazy. Change the dang needle!

Fat Girl Stories: Cyber-ly Abled

So when I watched Avatar and saw Jake, unable to walk and in a wheelchair, take on a Na’vi body that allowed him to not only walk, but even run, I felt pangs of jealousy.

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“In Real Life” Reality

I have not been able to walk very far for several years. After the Gastric Bypass in 2001, I lost lots of weight (which I have gained most of back), but also any calcium I took in wasn’t absorbed and now I have osteoporosis.

I have broken my feet (both) two times from trying to walk to lose weight and again last year falling up some stairs. I have broken my left foot requiring 3 surgeries after falling off a Wii Fit board, also trying to lose weight. Ironically, I fell over a balance scale in 1995 and broke my right ankle and that required 2 surgeries to repair and left me unable to walk but to the bathroom for almost 3 years. I am quite accustomed to the post-surgical boots now.

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(And no, losing weight will not fix it. It could make them hurt less, but trying to lose weight when you cannot exercise is a distinct challenge. Even swimming, I have cracked a bone in the top of my foot.)

I have been counseled several times to get an electric wheelchair, but have balked. Now with the new #NotMyPresident coming into power, I might have lost my window for getting one with insurance paying. Instead, I use a walker when I have to walk somewhere (therapist’s or doctor’s office, for example) or an electric cart if they have one (Target, Costco, etc.). I no longer walk in the mall, Disney World, concerts or go anywhere I have to walk further than about 4 minutes and when I do, I go very slow to preserve my bones.

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Virtual Reality

Virtual Reality is used for a variety of rehabilitative purposes, including with autism and others who need help acclimating after an injury that changes the person’s abilities. It is used with spinal cord injuries to teach folks how to move and even walk again.

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Even so, there are detractors, saying:

Some people also worry that steady exposure to virtual reality could alter the way people perceive the real world. Concerns have also been raised about the effects of people mostly communicating with others online. But on the other hand the internet and VR-enhanced communications can also be a great way of bringing people around the world closer together and enable disabled people with restricted mobility and independence, to interact with a wider network of people.

The thing is, I am not playing with Virtual Reality, but am creating my own Scenes, scenarios, storylines and community online through my writing. But yes, I know being online has increased my interactions with others… absolutely.

Cyber-Reality

When I am online, which is a lot, I am freed from those pesky real life limitations of being fat and physically disabled. I am able to walk miles, run through (metaphoric) meadows, sit on my cub’s lap and do all the things I ache to do in real life that will never happen again. I feel like Jake; freed from the constraints of my flesh and (brittle) boned body.

I cannot go out for coffee or have delicious sex as much as I desire because of my physical restrictions. Online, my life is robust and I would say almost completely satisfying. I miss my kids and grandbabies and miss going to Disney World (and those are enormous things to miss), but other than that, I am pretty content where I am behind the screen. I never want to be in a face-to-face lover relationship again; my virtual one is amazing and I embrace it fully.

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I love being able to have unencumbered sex with my sweet osezno, relieved of the logistics that real life would dictate. And what’s wonderful is he, too, is able to suspend reality, allowing me to be free… outside my body… and flying inside my mind. It is a gift he allows me that is completely dependent on the mechanism with which we communicate; the computer. Together, we tangle, we swirl together, we move around as if we were two feathers dancing on a current of air. Real life sex was never so uninhibited. It is a joy to be in this luscious place without my lifelong concerns… and occasional anguish… revolving around my body size, history of sexual abuse or even (seemingly) illogical psychiatric issues.

It is in these beautiful places that I do, most assuredly, feel cyber-ly abled.

allthelove

 

Fat Girl Stories: Chafing

Lifelong Fatty

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Fat bride in 1982, surely chafed, even in December.

I grew up in Orlando, Florida.

Walking to and from school for 12 years. Marching in the band during summer and fall… for hours…for 6 years. Pregnant with my first (who was born in October) while gaining 80 pounds. In the Florida heat and humidity then, too.

I was a chafing fool.

A Variety of Chafing Locations

So being fat, I swear I chafed in the gamut of places on the body one could rub two pieces of flesh together.

  • Under-boob
  • Under pannus
  • Thighs
  • Underarms

Before Chafing Solutions Existed

Baby Powder

Baby Talcum Powder Container

It took 60 seconds walking outside for the powder to become a paste

Cornstarch

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Bandanas

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Bloomers

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Chafing SUCKS!

ER Visit for Abdominal Pain

10/10/16

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I am a plethora of fucked up shit right now. The Bipolar Mania and my abdominal pain is getting worse. I went to the ER last night where everyone was as loving and respectful as possible. Oddly, two men I complimented on their bow ties, came and hugged me, both saying, “You’re beautiful!” That never happens.

Get Thee to the Hospital Already!

I’ve known I have gallstones for over a year, but the gallbladder wasn’t hurting me so I haven’t had to deal with it. However, I’ve been having increasing right upper abdominal pain for months, thinking it was a hernia (incisional). I also considered the gallbladder, but it didn’t fit the typical gallbladder attack.

Then the Mania hit and all of my body’s pain vanished. I didn’t realize it was gone until I started taking the Risperdal and the dips down from the highs brought back the intense pain I live with every day.

Symptoms

  • Off & on again fever (highest 103.5)
  • Sweating profusely (not related to Blood Glucoses)
  • Diarrhea that 20 Immodiums a day and Pancreatic Enzymes don’t quell (so no bowel obstruction)
  • Upper right abdominal pain that radiates through my back, which then changes to a knitting needle feeling (the pain has no rhyme or reason… independent of food choices… making this Atypical Gallbladder pain
  • When the spasms hit, Pain Level is a 6

I am really good at using Dr. Google and self-diagnosing, but I had run out of ideas for matching my pain to a cause, so trekked off to the hospital.

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Prelim Work

Because I know hospitals are wary of people with pain, thinking they are drug seekers, I am clear with each care provider overseeing me that I am 2.5 years clean from opiates and do not want them. They visibly relax, relieved they don’t have to figure out how to have That Opiate Discussion. I use Mindfulness Meditation for my pain relief and did my best with it the past week.

They took me right in and, during my vitals, we see my Heart Rate is 118… double what it should be. Noted. I was taken right to a room, meeting a lovely nurse who got the IV in my fat, fat arm’s one-vein-I-have on the first try. Then the Nurse-Practitioner came in with two students (she didn’t ask permission to have them in there, but I couldn’t have cared less at the moment… and I always let students watch anyway). I was delighted to see an NP and she thanked me for that, most saying, “Where’s the doctor?!”

Quickly, I was given Toradol, which didn’t do squat, and then Zofran (for nausea), which helped a little more. Then I was wheeled down to get a CT, a fat girl wheelchair that held my body comfortably.

I was in tons (laughing about the word “ton,” seeing it in editing) of pain at that time (the pain coming in waves like contractions). The tech helped me onto the narrow table.

Contrast Pleasure

The scan had contrast, which I have grown to enjoy. I used to cry when they said I needed it, but now…. shudder of pleasure

I teach others how to enjoy it as well.

You see, when the dye goes through the IV and into the body, it makes a searing beeline for the groin. More specifically for me, my clit. (Men say it goes to their testicles.)

You know, when some people get it, they uh- they start to- well, they get an orgasm. Can you believe that?

While I don’t orgasm, I have learned to, quite literally, lie back and enjoy the short ride.

I even overlook the nasty iodine taste in my mouth. Too much of a hot party going on down south.

When the procedure was done, the sweet tech and the wheelchair pusher-guy helped lift me to sitting, grabbing the sheet behind me and pulling. I was zipped up quick as could be!

Missing My Pain Doula

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It was going to take an hour for the results. I was texting with my fawn, then I got really, really sad about not having Zack with me.

Zack had been my medical doula for 2 decades. Longer. Even when he was pregnant (30 years ago), he was with me when I had surgery, loving me through it.

I began having another spasm, told my fawn I had to go for a few minutes, then cried as I did my Lamaze breathing, leaning over the raised head of the bed, my tears falling onto the blue sheet as I huffed and puffed in a sobbing rhythm. Big hot tears of remembering how Zack spoke up for me, protected me, gave me my meds on time, even wiped my ass after surgeries when I couldn’t reach. (That’s love right there.) I didn’t want to bother him with my pointless sadness, so didn’t call, but I could feel the emptiness engulfing me.

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I was NPO, knowing surgery might really be possible, and how alone I was going to be if that happened. How would I get food? How would I remember my meds? How would my ass stay clean?

(An aside: I have been being terribly non-compliant with my Risperdal and Trazodone. I asked my fawn to help remind me/encourage me to take them about 11 or 12 at night, but I over-ride him and just stay up for 24+ hours. Zack was like a Psych warden… handing me my pills and watching while I swallowed them. Alone, I get to be a bad patient because I would rather feel GOOD than sleep. Even though there are bugs and shadows and such. Yeah, I know. STOP IT! One of my sweet friends sent me a picture of herself making a stern face that she said says, “TAKE YOUR MEDS!” Maybe it’ll help.)

The Results

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The NP came in and told me they couldn’t see any hint of a hernia in that area. I was really surprised. However, the gallstones were present, but labs showed no cholecystitis, so surgery was ruled out for the moment. She said I did need to have surgery as soon as possible, though.  I told her I had a GI Doc I would call in the morning (10/10/16… I did… next post).

She then said I had an infection in my intestines. (The paperwork is in the car, I can’t find what it is called at the moment.) She wanted me on Flagyl, but I am allergic to it, so changed it to Cipro. She also was prescribing Bentyl for the colic-like abdominal spasms. She said she would prefer I stay in the hospital for a couple of days, but I said I could take care of things at home. (Sheesh. Lyin’ through my teeth, I am.) She said, fine.

When she went out to do discharge paperwork, the sweet nurse came in and did vitals. My HR was now up to 124. She left, the NP came back in.

“I really want you in the hospital for a couple of days now.”

I asked what would they do. She said meds and pushing fluids. I said I could do that at home. She had me sign out AMA. I was told to return to the ER in 12 hours if I couldn’t see my GI doc, wanting to check my HR again. I said, “Sure, no problem.”

I left with the prescriptions and tried the 2 closest pharmacies, neither of which takes my insurance. I was exhausted, crying in frustration and went home.

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I tried working, but was in so much pain, I laid in bed and boo hoo’d myself to sleep. I slept fitfully for a couple of hours at a time. Up for 2, back down again for 2.

I did not take my Risperdal or Trazodone last night.

I called my GI doc’s office at 7:50am and got an 8:30am appointment.

That’s the next post.

Next: Blindsided: The Fat-Shaming Doc Visit

The Cunt Coloring Book (and other feminist memories)

This book was integral to my beginnings of loving my body as well as understanding the vulva in midwifery.

Tee Corrine was an artist in the 1960’s, 70’s and 80’s. I learned of her around 1988 when I moved to San Diego from Frankfurt. I was a newly out dyke and Zack was still in the Army in Frankfurt (but was being separated for being lesbian) and I attended Lesbian Support Group meetings at the LGBT Center in downtown Hillcrest.

The Cunt Coloring Book, published initially in 1975, was extremely controversial, even when I first saw it in the late 1980’s. Older lesbians told the story of how difficult it was to get published and some enterprising dykes published it on their kitchen tables to start. It was shared in an underground fashion, passed quietly from woman to woman (ha! the spelling of “woman” at the time was “womyn”… couldn’t have the letters “men” anywhere around a vulva), sometimes one woman coloring a page and having the next in line color the next one.

Lesbian Mothers

There were very few lesbian mothers at the time and I knew of no gay fathers at all. We moms eventually formed a Lesbian Mother Support Group and it was awesome. I loved meeting other moms who understood the secrecy needed when sending our kids to school… how the Emergency Contact was a “friend” who happened to live with us.

Just like when any moms get together, there are going to be different parenting styles, but blessedly, they, for the most part, didn’t spank. I was already in the Natural Birth and Parenting Communities, a La Leche League leader (who I also had to hide my sexuality from) and had been a doula for around 6 years. There was one mom who talked about “seeing red” when she got mad at her kids and she thought we all did, that that was perfectly normal. I remember an intervention, of sorts, where we discussed what was discipline and what was abuse… a topic hardly ever mentioned back then. We encouraged her to find a therapist and deal with the anger instead of taking it out on her kids.

Lesbian Separatists

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lesbian separatists closing ranks

My first experience with a Lesbian Separatist was when Zack and I were still in Germany. A woman in our Gay Support Group, Friends of Dorothy, was quite proud of telling us about how she was so Separatist that when she gave birth to a boy, she was disgusted and gave him to his father, never to be acknowledged again. I am still as horrified now as I was then.

The lesbian community in San Diego was quite polarized in 1988, the Separatist faction wanting nothing to do with men. At. All. I had a boy child (and co-parented Zack’s son as well) and was not welcome in Separatist spaces. Even if I didn’t go with my kids, I was snubbed and usually left because no one would talk to me. I refused to pretend my son didn’t exist, so soon learned where to, and where not, to go.

The most vocal group (that I knew about) regarding Separatism was the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival as they fought to limit attendance to “womyn-born-womyn.” The last Fest was in 2015 and speculation continues about whether the growing distress and anger about the exclusion of transwomen was the cause of their demise.

While there have been transgender folks since the beginning of time, there seemed to be so few back then… public… except in bars, usually as drag queens doing lip synch shows. Goddess forbid a lesbian come out trans; he was ridiculed and the venom flowed that he had joined The Enemy and just wanted to be part of The Establishment instead of remaining an oppressed dyke. I admit I shared that sentiment, finding transmen to be the most confusing aspects of the LGBT community. Little did I know I would be confronting it head-on in 20 more years.

Blessedly, the Lesbian Separatist Movement seems to have faded into the recesses of history.

San Diego Lesbian Press

At this time, the late 80’s, is when the term Politically Correct was just coming into vogue; it wasn’t a negative term yet. The words became a frequently used phrase when I worked at the San Diego Lesbian Press as a writer.

SDLP

“The first issue of the San Diego Lesbian Press is published in October (1987), just six months after a group of women meet to discuss the need for such a publication and form a collective to make it happen.”

A “Collective” being the operative word. The SDLP operated on the “consensus” method of making decisions. (Or rather, NOT making decisions!)

Consensus

Consensus is a process for group decision-making. It is a method by which an entire group of people can come to an agreement. The input and ideas of all participants are gathered and synthesized to arrive at a final decision acceptable to all. Through consensus, we are not only working to achieve better solutions, but also to promote the growth of community and trust.

In other words, consensus is a group of people who argue for WEEKS on end about trivial shit and rarely, if ever, get anything done because everyone in the group is an Alpha Female and refuses to concede to a different position/belief/idea.

Clearly, I hate consensus. It started with the SDLP, but has continued in other, mainly lesbian or women-prominent spaces.

One SDLP argument:

It was a Separatist newspaper, but was always on the verge of dying because of lack of funds. One time, a man (gasp!) wanted to advertise in the paper… something benign like a lesbian bar. But he owned the club and the money would come from him. So several women had hairy cows over the issue of whether to accept the money or not. I am not exaggerating when I tell you the “discussion” went on for weeks… 3 meetings a week… for at least 4 weeks. “What if the check was written on his wife’s account? Can we do that?” “What if he ‘donated’ the money. Then could we accept it?” “We can’t take it for any reason… on principle.”

I got so sick of it; that was when I left.

My Early Published Writings

I wrote some good pieces while I was at SDLP, though. Looking back, well…. I wrote a piece about admiring Indian (from India) women’s “costumes” after going to a parade and there were many women in sparkly harem outfits. I asked myself if the women were hiding behind the veil and did I find them “mysterious…” or did they really represent oppression? I asked if I was I admiring the oppression of women in another culture? I barely had a glimmer of recognizing oppression of other cultures by flaunting them. That would grow over time.

I wrote a very long and very well-received article on how BDSM is one of the most vile and sub-culturally-accepted forms of physical abuse against women. I insisted there could never be consensuality and both submissives and Dominants were deluded in their belief that it was acceptable behavior to be hit/hit, that no one EVER deserves to be hit. For any reason.

When I was coming out in the BDSM community in 1995, I had to overcome that long-held belief. Apparently, I did. Completely. laughing

I was privileged to attend several really cool lesbian concerts and shows and, because I wrote reviews, I got in free (I was way poor at the time). Jamie Anderson, Tret Fure, Cris Williamson and the Indigo Girls long, long before they were as well-known as they are now. There were also lesbian comedians: Lea DeLaria (now famous in Orange is the New Black), Kate Clinton and Lynn Lavner all gave me great interviews. It was hilarious hearing about our (lesbian) lives through their comedy. Decades before Ellen. Both the singers and comedians generally alluded to the lesbian community… except Lea DeLaria who was screamingly out. We were more used to reading between the lines and, in the case of songs, changing the gender from “him” to “her.” (I think lesbians and gay men still do this!)

My Own Early Activism

Below is a picture of me marching in the Gay Pride Parade (what they were called back then) about 1989.

It was very challenging being a lesbian mom back then. Many of my friends lost their kids to their former husbands when they came out. I was one of the very few lucky enough to march.

Besides lesbian issues being important to me back then, fat issues were also important. That will be a post all on its own, but I needed to make a comment here about my marching 3+ miles as a fat woman. I did it. Easily. I was also 28 years old. The fat activists of today are in their 20’s. I will share, in other posts, what exactly fat does to a body’s mobility as the years pass. And I’ll discuss fat and health issues as well. I believe that, because I spent a great deal of time speaking and writing about fat activist issues… the importance of not fat-shaming (a relatively new term)… that I am uniquely able to talk about fat as an older woman and the hobbling effect it has had on me. Anyway, as I said… other posts.

Okay, moving on to another topic. Writing as fast as I can.

Blog Refocus: Life Through the Eyes of Food

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At My Daughter’s Nudging

So, after my Baking Bread Memories post, my daughter Meghann, also a writer, insisted I start another blog and talk about my life through the eyes of food. Not wanting to start over with yet another blog, I decided to edit this one and begin the project my daughter asked me to write in this one.

Besides the food refocus, I could not edit out my Bipolar and Diabetic experiences. I really feel my mental illness as well as my diabetes are intertwined with my life of eating; they are inextricably combined.

Long List of Memories

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My mama’s hand.

I began a list last night of times in my life where food took more than center stage and already have 29 potential posts!

Come along with me as I jot down memories for my children and entertainment for you readers.

I better get to writing.