“Ma-reeeee…Ma-reeeee.”
This is not the mating call of some exotic bird.
This is my mother-in-law beckoning her daughter.
This, starting in mid-November, for three glorious weeks, is the sound that will reverberate through my home, to the depths of my very soul.
“Ma-reeeee…Ma-reeeee.”
My sister-in-law and her husband are going on vacation. We’re all so very happy for them but a byproduct of their excursion is an extended Peterborough
“Ma-reeeee…Ma-reeeee.”
I love my mother-in-law. She is an angel who had one foot in Heaven the day she was born. There are more pictures of the pope in her Scarborough Vatican
“Ma-reeeee…Ma-reeeee.”
I’m destined for a pasta overdose. I’m good with that. Love Italian food. Her sauce is to die for. And my shirts won’t even see the hamper. If laundry was an Olympic event, Assunta would be Jesse Owens. Within days of her arrival, our home will be shiny as a new lira. That’s all good, very good, but…
“Ma-reeeee…Ma-reeeee.”


