By M. Maggard
Smooth the tops of fresh biscuits with fingers slick with oil, scrub pans in steaming water with a rough washcloth, and tie your apron so tight it creates a pink ring around your doughy stomach. Mash the boiled potatoes that burst with each thrust, fry chicken in oil that leaves welts on your hands, and set mismatched plates but the fancy silverware on vinyl tablecloths. Spend years standing in the hot kitchen with swollen feet and an achy back, sit at the table even though you’ve lost your appetite, and watch the family devour the feast and ask for more.
“I write because I want to have emotional experiences with those who read my stories. And because I think it was what I was destined to do.” – the writer