Three Bags of Cashews and a Dishonest Sister In Law at the Wedding

nails clicking against the glass. “And we should keep our minds on the flowers and the music.”

“The flowers are taken care of,” I said, reaching back into my canvas bag. “And the music is paid for.”

I pulled out the yellowed 1982 recipe card, its edges frayed and stained with a small grease spot from forty years ago where the vanilla had spilled.

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