When I was little, there was a woman who attended church with us. Her name was Mary Russell. Not Mary. Not Miss Mary. Not Mrs. Russell. Mary Russell. Every time. I never called her anything else other than that – even when speaking directly to her. And now, at age 33, I have no idea why I did that. I think maybe everyone else did too – or at least the people in my family. Maybe it’s why I also refer to myself in third person regularly.
But anyway, Mary Russell was a baker. Not just any baker. She would put Sara Lee or Betty Crocker to shame. Betty Crocker who!? She sold baked goods – and not just any baked goods. Baked goods that would make you slap your mama or push your sister down. True story. (more…)