Mrs. Teasley had breakfast ready when I went downstairs. Southern hospitality is delicious—strips of crisply fried bacon that weren’t burnt, baste... eggs that had perfectly solid whites and runny yolks, grits with a big pat of butter melting in the middle. Mrs. Teasley suggested that I try them with a little salt and pepper or break my egg yolk and sop it up with the grits. Maybe the best thing was the fresh-baked bread that was still so hot it was hard for her to cut. And the real butter was a. The needle on my emotional plotter has gone home and closed shop. So much did I have to bear in this lifetime: The boss that talked about new thrilling new opportunities only to shove me into a soul crushing task or out the door into the howling cold, the doctor that cut yet another piece off my flesh, the nurse that robbed me yet of another dignity, the lost argument that required me to swallow my pride despite me being right, yet lacking the social capital to win, the many hours watching. More

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