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Fried Yum and a Split Milkshake Tired from work, my mother, driven to distraction by her two-year old and a husband with a wanderlust, gave up on home cooking for just one night. I hadn’t guessed that the Food Fair’s fountain counter was anything but ice cream heaven. She stacked me on a stool and cradled baby Clay close while the cook served up grilled cheese french fry specials. Who knew that behind the pastry smell of the tiny bakery was a small town baker with fry cook dreams? We passed simple fare between us dipping in and trying hers, then mine. Her tired laugh made a date of it, a secret budget blowing splurge. Fried yum and a split milkshake. Clay was cooing so rare and quiet it seemed to be us alone, on the maiden voyage of our mother daughter food ritual. |
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