By Jennie Shortridge
Not anything will get Eleanor Samuels's center racing like a double scoop of mocha fudge chew. certain, the journal author could have a few matters other than foodstuff, yet she isn't really particularly able to face them. Then her liked Uncle Benny falls sick, and what initially turns out frightening and daunting turns into a blessing in hide. simply because whereas she chefs and cares for him-and enjoys a scrumptious flirtation with a brand new chef in town-Eleanor starts to discover a few long-buried secrets and techniques approximately her emotionally frayed kin and will ultimately get the opportunity to turn into the girl she's regularly desired to be.
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The snow, the ambulance. Benny’s yellow skin and hollow eyes. A battered pickup truck slides sideways through the intersection in front of me, my car skidding slightly before the tires grab at the crunchy slush. An inch-thick layer of accumulated snow slides from my roof and veils the windshield. For a moment I’m afraid I’ll suffocate. I can’t see, I don’t know what’s out there, what’s coming at me. I jump from the car to brush off the snow with my coat sleeve, looking out behind for approaching trafﬁc.
I trudge steadily along for a while, occasionally trading the heavy bag of dairy products in one hand for the other equally heavy bag, which contains a large box of potato ﬂakes and a half dozen Yukon gold potatoes for Mrs. Wittsler, a bag of Oreos for the Nguyens’ kids if I don’t eat them ﬁrst, and a fold-up umbrella for Irina Ivanova. My mother may not have been a great cook, but what she lacked in quality she made up for in quantity. We loved to help her unpack the grocery sacks each week, ﬁnding Little Debbie boxes beneath the dinner rolls, six-packs of Pepsi and Fanta ripping the brown paper bags under their steely weight.
Now go home. ” “He’ll love that,” I tell her. I may have been Yolanda’s favorite, but Christine was Benny’s. He treated us all as if we were his own, but he 40 Jennie Shor tridge always smiled at Christine’s impassioned lisp, not quite drilled out of her in second grade, and her dainty girl ways. She was the one like Mom, not me. ” I ask. “Oh, you know,” she says, sounding tired. “The same. ” For the past ﬁve years, Christine has worked evenings at the local library while teaching eighth grade so that her husband can pursue his dream of ﬁlmmaking.
Eating Heaven by Jennie Shortridge