My Experience Of My Grandparents's Home

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Throughout my childhood my family made a habit of visiting my grandparents’ home as often as we could. At six years old, I can remember getting excited on the short, fifteen minute drive to their house as I sat in my pink floral car seat with my most recent creation from first grade art class laying on my lap. As my father was driving, I would try to recall and make mental lists of all of the stories I intended to share with my grandparents as soon as walked in their door. However, I rarely got past my second anecdote before my grandmother would offer me a sample of her latest baking experiment. Being a six-year-old with a quite a sweet tooth, I could never refuse her offer. I always left my grandparents’ home with two things: my grandmother’s rosy lipstick mark on my forehead and a bag of sweets in my hands.
Around the holidays, my family’s visits to my grandparent’s home became more frequent as did my grandmother’s baking. On December afternoons, I would skip up the driveway in my bright red ballet flats as my curly pigtails bounced, run up the front porch stairs, and burst through the door. Around this time of the year, I knew to go straight to the kitchen, where I could almost always find my grandmother standing over a glass mixing bowl full of ingredients for her next creation.
I can remember running up to her and eagerly tugging on her apron to get her attention. No matter how into her baking she was, my grandmother would always turn around straight away and hug me.

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