I was a hyper child. I am a hyper adult. I was raised by the most amazing woman I have ever met — my grandmother, Stella. When I was 10, she devised a plan to curb my adrenaline-stoked mischief: She enrolled me in dance lessons and asked me to assist her in the kitchen.
She was a master baker. I’d witnessed the assembly of many a cake before, but until then I’d never been invited to don an apron and play a part in the process. She knew I liked being the center of attention and that giving me an opportunity to shine would stop my shenanigans.
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