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baking spell.
I sat down with Momma at the kitchen table and helped her pick through snow peas and wait with her while a big batch of cinnamon buns baked in the oven. She always bakes on Saturday morning, says it's the only thing that makes her happy consistently.

"How come baking makes you so happy, Momma?" I never really understood why she seems sad all the time, and I never wanted to question her baking every Saturday 'cause her cinnamon buns are the best things ever and I wouldn't want her to stop, but some times I want it to be that me and Dad and Jillian and Tribble are the ones that make her happiest, not baking.

"Oh, N.B.," she said, leaning over to the sink and grinding her cigarette out on some wilted pea pods, "it's not that I'm unhappy to start with...don't you worry so much about your momma."

I don't really know what Momma means all the time whens she talks, but I guess she knows more than me and she's right cause she is the momma, so I won't worry about her.

"You just keep your mind on healing your arm and not giving yourself another black eye."

She lit another cigarette with that long lighter Dad uses to light the grill, took the buns from the oven and sat down next to me, smiling, but not really all that happy looking. I might have broken the happy baking spell. I hope not.

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