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Breakfast

Breakfast

"May I?"  Mom asked impishly.  She plucked the stick of butter off the table and smashed/spread it directly onto her toast like she was crushing ants and shoveling a sidewalk at the same time.  

"No!" I said.  

"But . . . this way . . . I don't waste . . . " she protested.

Open butter sticks in the fridge were always studded with wheat toast crumbs, but this was the first time I'd seen her in action.  It took me a while to realize that she meant to save water by not washing a knife.  

 

Rummaging Region