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Everything

Grandma’s house did smell more like burning wood in the spring than it did in the summer, but seated in her kitchen, a cup of warm milk in my hands, it was the scent of baking gingerbread that filled my lungs. When Grandma had announced she was making her famous cookies, Mom had reminded her that it wasn’t Christmas. Grandma Agnes had shrugged and said, “Gingerbread cookies can be for any special occasion, dear. Haven't I taught you anything?”

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