[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.”