“Mother.”
That is what you used to call me as we sat together on those warm California nights.
That is what you used to call me as we shared chats throughout the house, laughing, exposing our pearly white teeth to each other.
That is what you used to call me as I held you to my breast, giving life to you through my mamaries.
“Mama”, you would call me. And I would gaze down upon your face, as you sucked your thumb, tasting it’s saltiness with your swollen red tongues.
I remember those days in the kitchen, feeding you my favorite mama’s casserole, a mix of all the things you loved in life.
You loved me.
You cherished me as only a child would to her mother.
And then,
You killed me.

You took me in the bathroom and told me you had something to show me, and I went in willingly, and then you locked me in. I thought you were playing a game, but then when you cut the electricity and made me survive on just a bathtub-full of green jello, you know, the only with carrots and pineapples that granny used to make for Easter brunch, I knew then that I was going to die.
And now I sit here from you, and yet you ask, how did I make it through?
Well honeys, it seems you don’t know the power that a casserole can have. Mama puts all the best things in her casseroles and that’s how she stays so supple.
So, now it’s mama’s turn to have a little fun.
If you want this allowance money, you need to tell mama what you would put in YOUR OWN homemade casserole.
Mommy doesn’t want some Rachel Ray pretentious dogfood-tasting abomination or some Paula Dean deep fried racist butter—no, Mama wants your own recipe of the best damn casserole so she can serve it to her swingers party next Saturday.
Whichever of you little angels creates the best casserole recipe will win Mama's vote. it’s as easy as pie (or casserole!)