Todd Maul – Cocktail menus need a bartender

 

“Cocktails are mostly little drinks made up from people’s screwy ideas of what tastes good or sounds better. They’re usually originated during the middle stages of a beautiful glow or to create an impression of sophistication. Among the hundreds of cocktails, ingredients comparatively few have weathered the years and are ordered repeatedly everywhere… Most cocktails, whatever the name, are just slight variations of a few good standard recipes…” Trader Vic 1948

(Trader Vic created the Mai Tai)

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A Cocktail menu, can be daunting- but why? A cocktail menu should be a leaping off point that breaks the ice between you and the person behind the bar.

Yes, a cocktail menu functionally is a printed document handed to everyone and serves the purpose of being the fastest way to convey the most information to everyone who enters the establishment. However, it is not a stand-alone document. The Menu serves as a baseline for communication. The cocktail menu theoretically is much more. It is the conduit to getting the drink you “want”. How? It does two distinct things.

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Katie Byrum, Bartender AT THE UP & UP | COLE SALADINO/THRILLIST

First, it gives the guest an insight into the skill set of the bar and an idea of what products the bar carries. It is a marker, not to what is, but what is possible. Secondly, but far more importantly it is a talking point- it allows the guest to open a dialogue with the bartender about “what you like”

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Nick Bennett, Head Bartender at Porchlight

It should be clear, from the cocktail menu, what style of drink the bar likes to make and what “classics” they are riffing. This is where the bartender comes in… It is the bar’s responsibility to tell you, to the extent you want to know, (nobody goes to a bar for a lecture) the philosophy behind the cocktail menu and the whys of the drink list.

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In the end the bar should want to give you the drink you want, not the drink they want to sell you. This seems like a silly turn of phrase, but this statement strikes at the core of what it means to be bartender. Bartending is a restaurant’s front line in hospitality. Being a proper bartender demands the skill of reading people and understanding what the guest wants. It is assessing the experience they are looking to have and exceeding their expectations. The cocktail menu is the first tool, to engage with the guest.

As stated by Trader Vic, most drinks are going to be a simple riff on a classic cocktail.  But a guest should not be herded into buying a drink on the menu, they should be led to a place of collaboration. The end product should be the result of idea sharing, on flavor, notes, spirits and even mood. The bartender should be using the menu as a beacon, to help you find your drink.

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Todd Maul co-founded Cafe ArtScience in Cambridge, MA and is an amazing mixologist who has revolutionized the way we see cocktails.

Stefan Barton – Notebook

At one point, when there were too many things to keep track of, I started to carry a notebook with me at all times: A kind of external, analog and, as I first thought, static second brain.

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Barton, Stefan. Observations of the three-eyed. Drawing.

In there (I am at least at book # 10 now) is an unruly mixture of dates, appointments, locations, lists, contacts, errants, links, random thoughts, acute ideas, etc.

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Barton, Stefan.  I should not have said anything. Drawing

This mess of words, numbers and other symbols experiences a treatment of crossing-outs, underlinings, grouping, linking (with arrows of a multitude of shapes) alterations, additions, subtractions, disintegration, annihilations (with wild force or with nice-looking spirals).

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Barton, Stefan.  Untitled. Drawing.

A current page is alive and morphing. It may become a rudimentary picture, with balance (or imbalance), impromptu composition, with it’s own energy and surprises out of nowhere, unintentional, emerging, self-organizing.

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Barton, Stefan. Garbler. Drawing.

In these erratic arrangements I may find new forms and connections I can work into the chaos.  Letters, words, scribbles and scrawls, lines and arrows become parts of figures, faces – literally embodiments. Eyes form spontaneously, placing themselves, looking back at me in concert with a variety of lively facial expressions, with pleas or disdain, with personality and maybe fate.

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Barton, Stefan. Prototypes. Drawing.

In the book my personal notes become a chaos-generator. And the resulting disorder I can turn into an aesthetic problem, and, if inspired, a solution in the process. Some of the images (and note, the book is not a sketch-book) are silly, some seem profound, some I turn extern into full-grown paintings.

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Barton, Stefan. Glint. Drawing.

The unplanned images cannot possibly be completely coincidental. They are based on meaningful thoughts, information, and the processing thereof manifesting through pen and pencil. It appears that they are more than the sum of their parts, even if they might in fact be less, depending on the value of the initial momentary notes, any resulting revelations, and finally on the quality of the emerging picture, on which I might have spent a good amount of time.

Barton, Stefan. Nicht Nichts (Not Nothing – as you can see these two word are almost identical in German, unfortunately not in English, but not a drama… ;-)).

The unwitting and somewhat automatic (when on the phone for example) playing with letters and numeration make me realize which lines and forms and circumstances I am drawn to.

Barton, Stefan. Random Number Service. Drawings.

Recently these preferences find their way into other, ‘higher’ forms of artistic expression like intentional drawings and, as mentioned, paintings. In fact, words have found their way into my newer paintings precisely because of the action that takes place in the note-book. The words are not there to be read, they are just part of the artistic language. A layer of intrigue, mysterious and uncomplete messages perhaps.

Barton, Stefan. At the very End of Infinity. Drawings.

For me an empty page or canvas is not an inspiration for artistic work – chaos is.

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Stefan Barton resides in a village near Hamburg, Germany, but he spent 20 Years in the US (San Francisco and Boston Area). He works on paintings, drawings and printmaking. To see more of his images contact Stefan (stefan.bartongmail.com ) visit  http://clex-werk.blogspot.de/  or look at a book:

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Carrie Allen – Carnivals, Cars and Chili

We are inherently social beings.  Our lives are shaped by our ability to cooperate and coexist with those around us. The power of community is our greatest saving grace in the face of meaninglessness and destruction. I have no words for the horrific events that took place in Las Vegas this week. My heart aches for the victims and their families.  With this post, I want to focus on communities and events that bring us together. For society to renew, individuals must constantly focus on self-renewal.

Self-renewal requires you to cultivate your capacity for renewal by doing new and different things. We can too easily become complacent with our lives and settle into a rigid structure of sameness.

As we mature we progressively narrow the scope and variety of our lives. Of all the interests we might pursue, we settle on a few. Of all the people with whom we might associate, we select a small number. We become caught in a web of fixed relationships. We develop set ways of doing things.

Doing new things shakes us out of our apathy. This is why when you travel you regain an attentiveness that heightens every experience. Use your weekends to explore and engage and try new things…even if you feel like staying home.  Push yourself.  It’s worth it. In the warmer months seek out things like carnivals, antique car shows and, yes, chili cook offs.

This summer my kids pushed me to go to the En Ka Street Fair in Winchester, MA.  I was at first resistant but I am so glad we went. There was something thrilling in being one amongst the crowd, everyone just relaxing and having fun.

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Traveling carnivals are fun to explore and are a good example of temporal experiences set up to bring people together.  The Chicago World’s Fair in 1893 was the catalyst for traveling carnivals, rides, food (maybe not fried dough back then…), games of chance, thrills and more.

Every May in Sandpoint, ID there is a Lost in 50’s Car Show and Street Party.  This past May was their 32nd annual event, which is impressive in and of itself.  Krister, my love, attended and took these luscious photos. The downtown streets were lined with beautiful vintage cars, musical acts, street dances and more.

People bring their antique cars from far and wide, even Canada, to participate.  You can feel the sense of pride in sharing their restorations, which sparks many conversations.

In June, stretched out across City Beach in Sandpoint, ID with a back drop of blue skies, big mountains and boats on Lake Pend Oreille, cooks from across the region set up their tents and chili with the hope of taking home the top prizes for their recipes and a chance to compete for the World Chili Cookoff in Nevada. (Who knew there was such a thing?) The community comes together for tasty chili while enjoying the camaraderie and competition.

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I have a robust commitment to hope.  Happiness is not something we find.  It’s something we make. We need each other. Friendship and love dissolve misunderstanding, force fresh perspectives, alter judgements and break down barriers.  Explore, try new things, connect with people. Be open to loving and being loved.  Magic is something you make.

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Carrie Allen created this site as a way for people to share stories about things they love. Read more about her inspiration here. 

Steven Duede – “Home is Where…”

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Duede, Steven.  Untitled, 2017.  Photograph.

In these images of very small model houses I’m teasing at the notion that the house is a home. That our homes are a part of us in an organic way. Looking at these ‘homes’ in miniature, of plastic, from sky view, in isolation I feel as if in some way, the viewer is an observer into something that is artificial in the way we might see what a home really is or can be.

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Duede, Steven.  Untitled, 2017.  Photograph.

These miniature homes, rescued from an old toy box, dusty, slightly damaged, a bit out of focus enhances the abstract synthetic nature of these images. I feel they also reflect a theme of home as something commercial, as something artificial, that is isolating.

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Duede, Steven.  Untitled, 2017.  Photograph.

These images devoid of lawns, actual people, surrounding neighborhoods, sentimentality, might remind us that the sense of home is not in the structure in which we reside at all. Home is where the heart is?

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Duede, Steven.  Untitled, 2017.  Photograph.

Furthermore, given that I mention that these images lack sentimentality; for me these subjects, but not necessarily the photographs themselves, have a sentimental slant. Many years ago, I endured severe illness in childhood that left me with permanent injury. I was ‘home’ bound for the better part of a year when I should have been in middle school. During that time in isolation, in recovery, my parents gave me N scale model train kits so that I might have something creative to participate in.

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Duede, Steven.  Untitled, 2017.  Photograph.

These little houses I constructed from these kits. They might have been therapeutic at the time. I’m not sure. I think they just might be now when I look at them through that long lens of time and experience.

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Duede, Steven.  Untitled, 2017.  Photograph.

In developing this project I’ve been not only considering my own experience in detachment but cannot help but wonder where so many of our hearts reside.

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Duede, Steven.  Untitled, 2017.  Photograph.

 

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Steven Duede is a fine art photographer, artist, designer and arts administrator living in Belmont, MA.

These and other works can be found at http://www.stevenduede.com

Hannah Dunscombe – Naive Melodies

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There’s a little boy and girl who live across the street from me in a handsome pink Victorian house. When I first moved into my shabby apartment building with a condemned front deck five years ago, the girl across the street was just a toddler, and an only-child. About a year and a half after I settled in, a large cradle appeared in their front window and a tiny new person appeared in her parents’ arms.

As I’ve watched the kids across the street grow, I’ve felt more and more removed from the comfort of my own childhood. When I first moved to Boston, I was excited to make my first real apartment after college into a home. I created a studio, decorated the walls, cared for plants, adopted pets, mopped the floors, and lovingly kept our dishes clean. But I didn’t really feel like an adult.

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I was working a minimum wage job that I didn’t care much about, barely scraping by, and every year that went by was another year that I hadn’t done much with my education. I could never afford to go home for the holidays, so I missed them. I found that I had some of the fatigue of being an adult – of having big plans but always being too tired to see them through, and instead focusing on cooking dinner, running errands, and getting as much sleep as I could so that I could do it all over again tomorrow – but I felt removed from the autonomy that I had always imagined all adults possessed. And even then, I didn’t have nearly as much of the responsibility that I observed in the parents across the street.

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I sometimes use childhood photos as inspiration for paintings and drawings. They both remind me of my childhood and allow me to better relate to my parents. I use photographs of strangers on the street or at the park and use them as subjects, and imagine what their lives are like. Sometimes I change the backgrounds to expand the plot of the scene. I’m most drawn to photos where the subjects’ faces are turned away from the viewer because I can relate to people more without the specificity of facial features and expressions. There is more available for interpretation in posture and gesture. I can read into their story like a picture book without words.

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Last year, I was staying home sick when I heard the sounds of an aluminum ladder making contact with the dilapidated deck outside my room. Over the course of the next two months, the landlord paid a construction team to sand off all the old paint, build level floors, install handrails, and put on a fresh coat of white paint. For safety reasons, they had screwed my door shut from the outside when they started construction. But as soon as they wrapped up, I was so eager to stand in a place I had never stood before in my own house that I climbed out of my roommate’s window with a screw driver and unfastened the door myself. I noted that when the door closed, it made a satisfying “click” when the latch caught on the strike plate. I brought out a collection of secondhand chairs that I had collected from the side of the road, and invested in hanging flower baskets and a watering can. My house of four years had suddenly grown a new limb, and I now had a place to look out over the street and feel like a part of the neighborhood rather than its eye sore.

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There are little shifts like these that slowly budge the breadth of my understanding of being an adult. Shifting to a full-time job. Adjusting my expectations of how often I can create artwork. Commuting two hours each day. Securing health insurance. Starting a retirement plan. Watching my parents retire. Breaking off a longterm relationship that began when I was still a teen. Watching my brother marry his wife. Watching my ex marry his wife. Seeing my grandfather for the last time and recording his voice. Paying the bills. Building credit. Having a deck where I can come home from a long day and daydream about having a place of my own, while I watch the parents across the street shepherd the kids home from school.

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As I get older and accumulate more adult experiences, I find myself relating more to the parents than the children in my drawings and paintings, even though I’ve only ever played the role of the latter.

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I’ve noticed that in most of my compositions, the parents are often off to the side, or in the background, guiding the children, sheltering them, reading the paper, making sure everything is well. They are not the center of attention, and not engaging in anything exciting.

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I think about how my parents did this for my brother and I when we were children, after a decade of shabby apartments and piecing together their rent. They bought a house near a park. They bought us new shoes every year that we wore on walks to the park. They bundled us up in hats and snow pants and pulled us on sleds. They brought home books from the library so they could read to us every night. There is a lot of selflessness there, to raise a child into an adult, but the children must figure out where to go from there. Meanwhile, the children I draw are playing, exploring, and being comforted. They exemplify vulnerability, hope, and energy. Drawing the parent/child dynamic allows me to meditate on the different roles that we play throughout childhood and into adulthood and parenthood.

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I was recently sitting on the deck after just having finished a book. It was a Sunday afternoon and I could hear the local high school band playing “Pomp and Circumstance”. It took me a second to recognize it. Its echo was diluted by the sounds from the main road and the train tracks. The kids going by on scooters. The neighbors across the street were ushering the kids to the van. The younger brother came out of the house singing, “N-G-O! N-G-O! N-G-O!” I was in the process of spelling this out in my head when he followed up with, “And Bingo was his name-o!”

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Two different groups of kids sharing songs that convey the beginning and end of childhood. It took me a little while to recognize both.

Hannah Dunscombe photo

Hannah Dunscombe is a photorealistic painter and portrait artist from Upstate New York. She graduated from Alfred University in 2012, studied Old Master techniques in Paris, and currently lives in Brookline, MA. She spends as much time as possible out on her deck, reading, writing, and drawing.  http://www.hannahdunscombe.com/

 

Juan Gamez – Lost in wanderlust

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About four years ago on my way to Japan for the very first time I felt excited to start over from a life that wasn’t what I wanted for myself, to experience the unknown, and to make memories that will last a life time. I found myself sitting on my flight listening to music when the song The Nights, by Avicii, started playing on my iPhone. The words spoke to me instantly…. Avicii said “When I was sixteen my father said you could do anything you want with your life. You just have to be willing to work hard to get it. That’s when I decided that when I die I want to be remember for the life I lived, not the money I made.” It seems kind of crazy but my dad told me that exact same thing when I was a young boy living in Colombia. It felt like the song was made for me. I knew that I had to stay hungry for knowledge and adventure, that’s when I got lost in wanderlust.

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Traveling, exploring new cultures and getting lost in foreign cities is what gets me going.

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There is nothing more exciting than when you are trying to figure out where to go or what to order but the best part is you have no clue how to speak the language nor do you even know the basics… It’s funny and fascinating. So what do you do when you have no way to communicate through speaking? Point at what you want, smile and hope for the best!

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Open yourself up to new cultures, new foods and new people. Getting away for a while will help you learn a lot about yourself.

In one of my journeys around the world I had the chance to meet some school kids in a village in Bali, Indonesia. They wanted to learn about where my friends and I were from.  As we told the kids where we were from we realized it was four different countries! In our group we spoke three different languages and we all came from very different backgrounds, but we were united by one thing – we were consumed by wanderlust.

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You only have one life so find happiness by doing what you love. Do it for yourself and the ones you love. Don’t be afraid of trying something new, experiencing new cultures, and the most important thing is to have fun on your journey. Get consumed by wanderlust.

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Juan M Gamez is a United States Marine. He was born and raised in Columbia, South America and moved to Boston, Massachusetts in the United States when he was 15 years young.  He is fascinated by culture and art.  He loves traveling, photography and seeking adventure at all times.

You can follow his travels on Instagram @jgamez

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Carrie Allen – “Sadie”

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Ever since I can remember I’ve dreamed about being a writer.  Over the years, visions danced in my head of creating novels, poems and short stories.  Yet, somehow something inside me always stopped me from taking that first step – even though I know I have much to say and write about – and I thought I’ll get to that later.

I love to read, especially fiction, getting lost inside a good story.  This is from where my inspiration for writing comes.  One of my favorite books has always been Catcher in the Rye, and to this very day my well worn copy still sits next to my bedside table, filled with underlined passages, notes and dog-eared pages, as I relished every moment at each read.  With this inspiration in mind, I’ve decided to start writing now and share my stories here.  I welcome contributions from those of you who also want to share your voice.  Just contact me!

Below is the first part of a set of serial short stories about a young girl named Sadie.  Comments and feedback are welcome.

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SADIE – It’s hot

Sadie sat and stared up through the branches looking at the faded blue sky peeking through patchy white clouds.  She heard a fly buzzing somewhere behind her. Flicking a twig off her leg, she slid down a little farther into the barrel of water.  It was hot.  So incredibly hot.  She thought she would melt.  This is why she filled the metal barrel with water from the hose and plopped down in it.  The water felt cool on her hot skin.  Even so, sweat dripped from her limbs that didn’t fit in the barrel and the heat was suffocating.  The tree gave her a little bit of shade.

She could hear her grandmother in the kitchen chopping vegetables, prepping for tonight’s dinner.  Her brother was down by the docks, trying to catch a crab.  He’d been at it for a while and was not interested in entertaining Sadie, he said.  Caleb was four years older and not much fun; he never wanted to play.  Sadie and Caleb had been at their grandmother’s house for a month and a half.  Their mother needed a break they were told.  She was weak and couldn’t handle their noise and demands.  What did they know?  Sadie could’ve helped her mom even if she was only eight. She knew how to make sandwiches and clean up the kitchen and she took real good care of her mama.  Still, they were sent away.

“Sadie!” she heard her grandmother yell.  “What are you doing now?  Look at that mess you’ve made!” 

“It’s hot,” she yelled back.  “What did you expect me to do?” she muttered.  Sadie looked at the mud puddle around the barrel and the sludge that was slipping down the hill towards the back door to the kitchen.  She had left the hose running so that the water would stay cool.  Her feet were covered in mud and it was smudged on her hands and legs, drying and cracking in the heat.  Her threadbare yellow dress floated up around her in the barrel and she pushed it back down into the dirty water.

Humming now, she closed her eyes and tilted her head up towards the sky.  One hand swirled the water and lapped it up towards her neck.  She was trying to remember as far back as she could when her mama was not sick.  As hard as she tried, she couldn’t. She wondered what her mama was doing at that moment.  A sadness enveloped her.  She longed for her mama’s arms and warm embrace and happier days.

Last year, try as she did, she couldn’t stay out of trouble.  She was real helpful and always trying to fix things.  She had good ideas – she knew that for sure.  Didn’t matter that not everyone understood them, like the time she collected the neighbors’ cats and brought them home to the apartment.  She thought the cats would be thirsty in the heat.  She found three but didn’t know they wouldn’t get along – that it would be hard to get them out before mama got home from work.  What a mess that was. 

Her mama had been so mad she locked her in the closet for hours and said she couldn’t control her so that’s where she needed to be. She said Sadie gave her a headache.  The dark had scared Sadie at first, but then she realized it was nice and peaceful. She could see her mama’s shadows on the floor where the light shown in under the door.  Sadie loved those shadows, her mama dancing by every time she passed the door.  They comforted her while she softly hummed and rocked back and forth in the dark.

A bird screeched and pulled Sadie back to her barrel of water and the heat.  The water from the hose kept rushing down the hill and the mud puddle was getting bigger.  She thought she should probably get up and turn off the hose, but the heat made her feel heavy.  She didn’t feel like it.  She’d get to it before her grandmother looked outside again.

As her eyes scanned the yard, she caught a glimpse of something small and purple across the stretch of patchy grass and gray hardened dirt.  She wondered what it could be so she pushed herself up out of the barrel, leaving the dirty water and deluge behind her, forgetting to turn off the hose.  She made her way over, tripping ever so slightly on a tree root, to see what caught her eye.  As she approached she realized it was a small, blooming violet.

She lay down on her stomach to look closer.  The violet had only one flower on a drooping stem with two small yellowish leaves.  Popping up out of a crack in the dirt and leaning over, the flower was straining to grow, and yet despite the conditions unsuitable for it to survive, it was still growing with determination.  “Look at you, so pretty and small.  Where is your mama to take care of you?” she asked in a quiet whisper.

 

Carrie Allen created this site as a way for people to share stories about things they love. Read more about her inspiration here. 

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