[dropcap]W[/dropcap]hat is that God-awful smell?”Jamie walked into the kitchen, waving her hand in front of her face.

“Dinner,” I said removing my apron. “Oyster stew,” I cleared my throat, “homemade from scratch.”

She bent down over the pot, tasted some with the wooden spoon, contorted her face, and cussed like a commercial fisherman.

“That is not homemade,” she said. “Now tell me where it’s from.”

“It was on clearance at the Piggly Wiggly, twenty-five cents,” I showed her the empty can.

“You dumb-red-bearded-piece-of-shrimp,” she hollered. “This can is six years old.”

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