fitatta

Last night, as I was talking with mom on the phone, a squad car sped down our street, and M, shirtless, futilely ran out the door to see what the commotion was about.

On the other end of the line, mom was excited, too. She was already hypothesizing who the perps were, what was stolen or ruined.

M quickly searched out a police scanner streaming on the web. Apparently, there were three Asian teens running from backyard to backyard within the perimeter the officers were rapidly establishing.

Mom wanted to know more, but we only had a handful of details: some street names, what they were wearing.

When I called mom this afternoon to report that my frittata recipe — just take whatever you have in the fridge: mushrooms, turkey lunch meat, spinach, hash browns, and then cook it all in a puddle of eight eggs and five scoops of small curd cottage cheese and pesto — was a success, she still wanted to know about the bad children hopping fences in the dark.

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