嗡嗡嗡嗡The Ring
When the one-year anniversary of my mother's passing came around, I found mylf in the kitchen preparing some of her favorite dishes. I hadn't planned this, but there I was one hot August afternoon, making her famous soup from the turkey I had roasted the day before.
学唱一首歌
As I poured mylf into cooking, some of the deep sadness I was experiencing at this one-year mark moved through me. I loved my mom's turkey soup, how she cooked the egg noodles right in the broth, and how they soaked it up and tasted almost like dumplings. I remembered the time she made some especially for me. It was summer then, too, and I had a terrible head cold. She arrived unexpectedly one afternoon at my work place with a huge jar of her turkey noodle soup. I thought about the bread she ud to bake and about how much butter she would slather on it, and how we loved to dip it into the broth. I began to feel a little more buoyant amidst the pain of losing her.
While the noodles boiled in the broth in my kitchen, I realized that I was reconnecting with
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my mother through food. I laughed a bit at mylf when I reflected on all the dishes I had cooked that week. Without knowing it, I had created a beautiful ritual to honor my mother and to comfort mylf at this vulnerable time. I suddenly felt my mother at hand and was filled with her prence. I was so uplifted and excited that I began talking to her, imagining she were there.
"What el should we make?" I asked of us both, wanting to keep the ritual from ending.
"Irish Potato Pancakes," was the reply.
I hesitated. The thought of the brought up another loss. The last time I made potato pancakes was two and a half years ago. I had taken off my engagement ring to make the dough, and never found it again. Since then, I resisted using that recipe even though I really liked tho pancakes. It's sort of silly, but whenever I considered making them, I felt rentful of their participation in my loss, as if they were partly to blame.
My mom should know better than to suggest the, I thought. (I don't even remember her ever making them.) She knew how upt I was about losing my ring. I had always call
德州美国ed her whenever I lost something, even when I was away at college, even from across the country, even when I traveled abroad. She had a knack for helping me find my way to lost things, except for this time.
But despite the hesitations, I found mylf caught up in the joy and celebration of the moment, and I reached for the cookbook without another thought of the ring. My mom did love Irish things, and the were delicious. I opened the large coffee-table cookbook and turned to the pancake recipe. At once, something at the bottom of the page caught It sparkled! I gasped in utter amazement! There, presd into the pages of this book, was my diamond ring! 3月27
Chills ran up and down my body as my mind raced to ponder how this was at all possible. Hadn't I ud the book for other recipes in the cour of almost three years? Wouldn't the ring have slipped out during the packing and unpacking of two houhold moves? Hadn't I checked the book for the ring when I had lost it?
My mind was subdued as my heart overflowed with the magic of gratitude and wonder. I
slipped my ring onto my trembling hand, and a smile filled my soul as I whispered, "Thanks Mom." 桎梏什么意思
击鼓传花的作文
That day, I made potato pancakes in the shape of hearts.
>老花镜是什么镜
