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Kathy Bradley - Holy awe and dishpan hands
Kathy Bradley
I am standing at the kitchen window, staring into darkness where only a few minutes before the light had smeared lavender across the horizon like a little girl's first attempts at makeup. It is the night before Thanksgiving, the dishwasher has died and one by one each knife, spoon, spatula, pot, plate, bowl, cup and colander involved in the preparation of my assigned dishes — together with all the dirty glasses and plates and silverware that filled the dishwasher at the time of its demise — must be washed and dried by hand. The onions and celery and pepper, diced delicately into small green cubes and tossed with the shoe-peg corn and the bright red pimentos, await the marinade that is cooling on the back burner and tomorrow's verdict of whether Jenn's morning sickness will subside long enough for her to enjoy it.
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