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My sister loves to bake cookies. She is new to baking cooking, that being said they are delicious. I wish y’all could try one.
the cookies were in the oven. when did those go in? did she even make the dough? she must have. right? she couldn’t think straight. why did she bake cookies? she hated cookies. she hated baking. the oven dinged. the cookies were done. but whose cookies? who could she have possibly made cookies for?
We were never the kind of family to bake around the holidays. Perhaps because my Grandma didn’t have a working oven. There was no extra money for that. But I do remember she would always make a holiday feast, even if it was just something simple that she could afford. I always felt her love, and to this day still miss her deeply
Always make sure to bake the torso separately from the limbs. It seems like the limps get almost chewy when baked at 450 degrees. sometimes I just boil them or add them to the crock pot, to make them more tender. Never ever bake the head, that is really only good to add to the stew. The eyes however….
was baked in
The unspoken words baked in the heat of their silent stares, a conversation richer than any articulated language.
the golden hills baked in the sun, beckoning me from the highway to roll and tumble down them
The essence of the cosmos seemed to bake into the clay pots, their humble exteriors whispering of stardust and secrets.