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I Keep My Junk In My Trunk & My Dowry In My Attic
This weekend I helped my mom cook cinnamon puff pastries for the baby shower. Well,that
ʼ
s only partly true. My mother knows better than to entrust me with anything thatinvolves a series of directions. (I once tried to to make a pie, but in my haste, usedbaking soda instead of baking powder, and decided applesauce would work just as wellas real apples.
Readers 
ʼ   
note: this turns out to be false. If given the choice between “apple pie” and “applesauce pie,” I'd go with apple 9 times out of 10.
)Given this, I was assigned miscellaneous kitchen tasks that allowed me to be involvedand yet out of the way. I grabbed flour from the top shelf with ninja-like reflexes, dicedapples with the speed of a samurai and folded pink napkins with such precision thatMartha Stewart herself would have forced a smile.And when my mom needed a cinnamon shaker she sent me to into the attic to find it.“Mom, why is the cinnamon shaker up in the attic?” I asked.“Because we don
ʼ
t use it and I figured you may want it some day.”“So it
ʼ
s in the the attic?”“Yes, that
ʼ
s where I keep all of the stuff that you may eventually want, you know... whenyou
ʼ
re married.”“You mean I have a
dowry 
?”“I guess, something like that.”“Mom, what kind of crappy dowry includes a cinnamon shaker?”“Oh honey, it
ʼ
s way more than a cinnamon shaker. You have a bread maker up there,too.”
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