My writing

An ode to Wally, my mom’s old-ass hand mixer

You couldn’t get more than three dollars for Wally at a yard sale. His yellowed cord is twisted beyond recognition. It’s untamable. When you try to wind the cord around the body of the mixer for storage, it always unravels and flops around, like a toddler having a tantrum.

I talked about my mom’s hand mixer for TheKitchn and what it meant to me as a kid, and what it means to me as an aunt. Give it a read when you have a spare minute.

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