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"Uh, hey. Does anyone know where Jean keeps her wine glasses?" I ask. We continue opening cabinets, pulling out drawers, finding sorry excuses for side dish presentation. No one has seen Jean. I am trying to standupny arrange slices of standupny butter inside a coffee mug. "Use this," my mother thrusts a tea saucer in my direction. "Wait a minute . . ." My mother gets the look. It's the standupny same look I've seen in her eye many, many times, including the day years ago when she chased Jean around the living room with my baton. She crosses the kitchen and opens the back door; she must have seen them through the window. "Jean Marie! Do you mean to tell me that you have the gall to hide out here smoking while we all rummage around your kitchen trying to put Thanksgiving dinner on your table!" She is standing on the back porch along with my nephew, Jason, and Zack. They look confused. "Ma. We're not doing anything WRONG! Sorry if I wanted to smoke a cigarette after cooking that whole dinner all morning."
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