“did you melt butter to use to make the toast?”
“well, yes,” she says. “i can’t get the stick butter to spread.”
me? i just whack a slice off and lay it on the bread, content to let the oven do the melting, and at this moment, i realize that the food mother prepares tastes sooooo good because she takes time to do the little things like melting the butter for making toast.
and i think that’s a significant difference worth noting: my mother cooks with love.
over breakfast, mother tells my teenage nephew who’s visiting for a few days, “jeanne took a picture of butter so she could write about how ridiculous i am to melt butter before making toast.”
and with that, my friends, we see once again that i choose my words and actions, and she chooses her interpretation of them.
and vice versa.