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A queasy selling of the family heirlooms
I am not sure which would appall my mother more: “dip chiller” to name her receptacle for delicate, extravagant shrimp, or me asking an artificial intelligence to remind me what she taught me.
This is why we drape the exercise bike with damp clothes; keep the pricey, impulsive kitchen gadgets in the back of the lowest cupboard; slip a garment bag over the little black velvet dress so seldom squeezed into, breathless, husband nearly breaking the zipper. Here in this nice place, crassly named Midwest Money but genteel in its manner, a trusted South City establishment where you can turn your past into cash with no questions asked, I am startled to feel so vulnerable. Just the opposite: above its ornate, well-turned legs hides a glass bowl for ice, so the cocktail shrimp stays chilled and one’s guests go home alive.
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