Cleaning out my fridgeand thinking about writing a religious poem that somehow combines feeling sorry for myself with ordinary praise, when my nephew stumbles in for a coffee to wash down what looks like a hangover and get rid of what he calls hot dog water breath. I wasn't going to bake the cake
now cooling on the counter, but I found a dozen eggs tipped sideways in their carton behind a leftover Thanksgiving Jell-o dish. There's something therapeutic about baking a devils food cake, whipping up that buttercream frosting, knowing your sisters will drop by and say Lord yes they'd love just a little piece.
Everybody suffers, wants to run away, is broke after Christmas, stayed up too late to make it to church Sunday morning. Everybody should
drink coffee with their nephews, eat chocolate with their sisters, be thankful and happy enough under a warm and unexpected January sun.
By Ginger Andrews