There was a tradition in my family. The same, annual celebration that every other ordinary family partook in. A small, yearly occasion that comes around four times a year.
The first was in January. And on that day for as long as I can remember, I'd always be stuffed full, crumbs on my shirt, smears on my chin, sweeping through an empty plate with a finger, trying to gather enough morsels to make up one last bite. My favorite treat, my favorite dessert, with a splash of love which Mom always made with excess. Just the way I liked it. All I needed. Always.
April was the next time we would reprise the process, and perfection would be the running theme of that very special day.
