My mother’s brownies were legend amongst my friends. They were the strangest color, they didn’t look right at all, but they were delicious. She made a pan almost weekly. By the time I was fifteen, all I wanted to do was get out of the house, but all my friends just wanted to come over and raid the stovetop. By seventeen I was home only to sleep, running around with ill-chosen friends who had no future and could ruin mine.
These days, with mom gone, I make different brownie recipes a lot. They’re never as quite as good. They’re ok.
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Title by: Anonymous
Story by: David
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