Sundays With Ingrid
Sunday morning. The note on the fridge read:
“Hi Ingrid! I’ve got an open house till four, Dad’s out with the Sandblasters, and Ty stayed over at Greg’s. Waffles in the freezer. Have a nice relaxing day. Plus homework. Love, Mom.”
Ingrid toasted waffles. Waffles, such a great invention, and all because of those little squares, like rice paddies, perfect for filling up with a melted butter and maple syrup combo. Another example of what made America great—the nation that turned plain old rice paddies into syrupy butter paddies. As for a suitable drink—how about hot cocoa?
Ingrid sat in the breakfast nook, gazing out at the backyard and the town woods beyond. A clear blue day, the treetops still; but not warm-looking. Cold didn’t stop the Sandblasters, a group of fanatical golfers at Dad’s club who’d sworn a blood oath or something to keep playing all year long. She’d been forced to take lessons one summer. The outfits, the lingo, the tedium: Ingrid had never laughed so hard in her life, actually rolling around on the practice green one day—her last at the club, as it turned out.
From Down the Rabbit Hole
Tags: Echo Falls Series
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