Thursday, December 29, 2011

waste not ...

Mom's cheese. The smell ...

The very flat fruitcake that Salley made that Mom rescued from the garbage pail (and we ate >> goes without saying).

The enormous number of huge pumpkins that self-seeded in the graveyard and we (Mom, Dad, me) had to eat; every one of them (bread, muffins, various puddings slyly concealed under mounds of other stuff), on and on and on until Daddy finally rebelled with a roar.

Poke-weed. And that other weed that I have mercifully forgotten the name of*. That we ate. And ate. And ate. Until Daddy finally rebelled with a roar.

Dad's boxer shorts re-used as a substitute for paper towels. (Old ones; not the ones he was still wearing ... I hope.)

[*Addendum: now I remember -- the other weed was Lamb's Quarters.]

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