Klair bumps me with her hip, taking my place as the designated salami flower folder. “There is no such thing as too much cheese,” she says, her laser-like focus now turned toward fixing what I’d been working on. “That’s for sure going on your headstone.” “You know what’s going on yours? Mediocre at handling meat?” Jaw. Dropped. Getting roasted by Klair is easily one of my favorite pastimes, but this one just might take the cake.
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