I think of her as I cream the sugar and the butter. I use an electric beater, but she didn't.

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I remember her standing in the backyard, right next to the clothesline, using the sun's warmth to soften the butter.

One hand held the green bowl tight against her, while the other worked furiously at the batter with the wooden spoon she clutched.

She wore an apron over her house dress and her lips were painted rose pink with her favourite Avon lipstick.

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I don't remember what she made.

But I remember her.