Imagine growing up, with food all properly prepared. Portions of the food exact – not too much and not too little. Everything exact. It almost makes you want to hurl. Breakfast, lunch and supper done just so. Your mother, the piano teacher, the home schooler wearing the perfectly sown dress, which matches the one she made for your older sister and you.
Your nemesis is The Peach Cobbler. Yes, you may have cobbler for breakfast. Just this once and maybe with a sip of pink champagne.
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