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My friend is a historian, so he talked a lot about Lyndon B. Johnson last week since we went to NASA. After he left, my husband and I did our spring cleaning, since we got a bunch of gifted kitchenware from our travels/visitor. Moving all the things I don’t use on high shelves, we found a cookbook. All the cookbooks go up high now. I cook annually, so I had to rally to keep a few of my cookbooks. My once a year cooking doesn’t take place on a specific day, I just have a rare craving to see if the smoke detector still works. It hates (or if you view it as singing, loves?) my lime chicken. This cookbook is my husband’s, passed down from his grandma.

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I found it amusing. No one in my family, that I know of, has any sort of state pride or presidential pride that runs that deep. (with the possible exception of my deceased grandmother who, to my knowledge, never owned a Jimmy Carter cookbook. I could be mistaken). I am starting to get inflated pride about my family history and my place of birth, because everything’s bigger here, and living here is affecting me. Could be the heat. Also, because I feel left out.

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