When I was around six, my mom’s good friend was a writer of cookbooks.  Health-food cookbooks.  Seventies-era health food.  Fructose.  Carob.  Maple leaves and bark.  There was a photo on the back cover of one of these books with the cook, Mary Ann, and her two children, a little younger than me, licking their fingers over a mixing bowl, all smiles.  I envied these children, these rosy-cheeked cherubs who loved food that was good for you while I was folding my little hands on my green gingham bedspread in my room, praying for a box of chocolates so big I could sit inside of it when I was done.

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