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L’il Sis has taken to popping by a small local farmer’s market on her way home from work each Thursday. That’s because we don’t have enough food! (I refer you here to past blogs wherein I discuss our overflowing fridge, cupboards, mudroom cupboards and secret cold room stash since Crazy D and L’il Sis stormed in with their ‘All Kale All the Time’ diet.) No matter. At least she brings something useful on Thursdays. She brings a lovely loaf of organic, loaded with nutrients, actually tastes good, bread.

After I recovered from the shock that it really tasted yummy, I took her up on her offer to help myself whenever I wanted. With her off at her job, the loaf sang to me when lunchtime rolled around. And I figured, since I make chicken soup every day for The Pig, it wasn’t out of line, and I wasn’t unfairly taking food out of my daughter’s mouth, I would have some. With summer winding down (and with it my daily lunch of smoked salmon on rye) and my switch to my early fall menu (bread, salami, cheese and veggies) in full swing, her bread would be perfect.

I grabbed the bread knife (the crappy one you don’t like, Gill, but the one Crazy D and I swear by) and began sawing. Two lovely slices. I thoroughly enjoyed my lunch.

L’il Sis arrived home from work. She needed a snack so went straight to her loaf. “OMG! Mom, what has happened?”

“What do you mean, ‘what happened?’ I fed your dog her lunch, we went for a long walk, she peed and crapped, we had a nap, I did some writing. Typical day. Nothing out of the ordinary. Why?”

“Look at the loaf, Mom! It’s been butchered. Was that you or Crazy D’s handiwork?”

At that moment, Crazy D appeared from nowhere. “What’s wrong? What’s the screaming about?”

“Look at the bread! Who does that?” She glared at both of us.

“I don’t see anything,” I commented, puzzled.

“Look at the angle of the last cut,” L’il Sis ordered, her tone accusatory.

Crazy D piped up, “Oh, the mystery is solved. That’s Mom’s handiwork. I’d know it anywhere. You don’t need to call in CSI to figure out this crime, Sis. She always cuts bread at a 45 degree angle. She is physically incapable of cutting anything straight.”

He looked at me, guilt oozing from every pore. “Sorry to rat you out, Mom. But you know it’s true. That’s why we have all those nubs of bread, the end bits, in the freezer. Nobody can get a real piece from the end and we hate to waste it so we chuck it in the freezer.”

“Well, maybe there’s a method to my madness,” I said, trying to find a way out of this hole. “I use the nubs for croutons — those delicious croutons that you both, incidentally, devour with great gusto.”

“Oh, that’s what we’re doing now, is it? I thought you were saving them to stone to death the dozens of squirrels at the feeder. Whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep, Mom.” He was struggling to not laugh.

“I’ll prove to you it wasn’t me,” I announced, going to the fridge and pulling out our huge block of cheese. As I unwrapped it, I pointed triumphantly at the end. “See? Straight…I am perfectly capable of cutting things straight.”

They both pounced. “Mom, do you honestly think that’s straight? If you do, we’re making an eye appointment for you tomorrow.”

“My eyes are fine!” I countered. “Who is the one always going around straightening the pictures on the walls? Me!”

The two glanced at the nearby walls. “Uh, Mom, that goes a long way to explain your difficulty in parallel parking. Your whole view of the world is askew.”

“Of course it is. Are you just realizing that now?”