Your mother is standing by the stove stirring a concoction that she might call soup, gumbo, or stew. You feel the special pencil in your pocket, pull it out, and while your mother turns to get something from the fridge, you proceed to stir it in the slop. It instantly disappears and you quickly draw your favorite chilly. No harm no foul you say to yourself. You love your mother, but she just can't cook.
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