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I have been having a strange desire the last few months. I want to create something.

There was a time when it was babies that my heart preferred. Questioning should there be one more then the three I had, in those days, I poured my creative longing into three hearts and lives housed behind greenish-blue and wood brown and then the last, bright blue eyes. Throughout their growing up years, we shared my kitchen, their skinny bottoms on counter tops, legs dangling and a jumble while they stirred and peered into bowls and whirling blades powered by a big silver standup mixer. They fought over which of them would man the switch and who would break the eggs and who would lick the bowl. We created together. Big flat cookies, lopsided and crisp and as their delicate little neurons fired new connections that made sense of cups and ounces and creation and it was the art and then the love, of cooking that we shared. And the three of them each in his way, evolved their own special sense of beauty. Those little thoughts matured into handsome bowls of chili and fine Christmas cookies and experiments with cheesy potatoes and as all things have their time, that was our time, the right time for cooking and babies and me.

But my time for those days are past, and whether it’s a mother’s talents or