I'd like to share an anecdote about my mother. I wrote this filler when she was still living on this side of the veil.
Sixty years and two thousand miles from her childhood home in Madison, Wisconsin, my mother is going through a nostalgic phase. She invited me to her apartment for lunch the other day and asked me to bring our old iron meat grinder so she could grind nuts for grilled olive nut sandwiches.
"I used to order them at Rennebohm's Drug Store every day when I was in high school," she told me. "We didn't have a cafeteria so we'd walk across the street to the drugstore for lunch."
Never having had olive nut sandwiches before, I couldn't fault them, but my mother frowned at hers thoughtfully. "They don't taste quite right," she said. "Something's missing." Then her face lit up. "I know what it is. I always used to have a hot fudge sundae with it!"