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My mother had a peculiar habit when she cooked for us when I was a child. She would fixate on a dish and this is what she would cook for us for days on end. I have no clue to this day why she did this. Perhaps her pleasure at her successes led her to try and prolong it for as much as she could. Maybe she figured that practice makes perfect. Maybe my voracious appetite for anything she placed in front of me made her believe that she couldn’t stop making whatever it was, for the love of her dear daughter.

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