Now it was in the Springtime, as I recollect it, when the mountain was dotted with petite dabs of fresh pale green, a virginal shade from the Master artist’s sage palette, when I sat at the dinette in Granny’s modest kitchen, looking out the window at the blooming redbuds that stood out like merry boughs of cotton candy along the hillside. Winter had retreated, and the whole blooming world seemed to rise up from the dead.
It was that day that I first saw Granny’s cookbook.
Her spindly fingers found the pages she sought out quickly. It was nothing more than a spiral bound notebook, truth be told, the page edges frayed and tattered with several decades or more of elbow grease, garden soil, and that good ol’ Granny magic.
Oh, magic, indeed. Now Granny would have never proclaimed herself to have ever been more than a mountain sister, a…
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