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Well, it’s September and I’ve come to the conclusion that I will forever feel that the year begins and ends on Labor Day. Maybe it’s a side product of having been in school until I was 25, but I still think in terms of a school calendar and September inevitably brings with it a feeling of excitement. While I don’t have anything quite as momentous as the start of school coming up, I am a big fan of Autumn. Given that I like Fall so much, it’s pretty great that I live in Georgia where Fall pretty much lasts until (and sometimes through) December. It’s the season of hiking, sweatshirts, everything pumpkin all the time, Halloween, Thanksgiving, soup, apple pie,

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 I have a confession to make. It started when I was a teenager and it’s something that has grown since then, achieving the conviction and strength that comes only with time and commitment. I know, some people might think it’s a bit weird for a girl to feel this way (silly people), let alone a grown-ass woman, but I just can’t help it.  So here goes. Folks, I love Nerf guns. I think they’re good for the soul. It all started at the beginning of high school. I was friends with a pack of boys and we all did technical theater. We spent evenings, weekends and a significant portion of winter break at school building sets, which sometimes involved running

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 I acquired a waffle iron last week. As you can imagine, there have been a few waffles consumed at Chez Morgan since then. Not Belgian or Liege waffles, but straight up, Eggo-style waffles. As a kid, I consumed waffles on a regular basis. So much so that my grandfather used to call me the “Waffle Kid.” As an adult, waffles are an infrequent occurrence. Every once in a while I pick up a box from the frozen section at the store and gleefully indulge in a few days of waffle bliss, but if going sweet for breakfast, tend to opt for pancakes. Probably because I didn’t have a waffle iron. Well, now I have an iron and am loving it.

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 My first memory of eating cheese grits is seated at my Great Aunt Frances’ breakfast table. The table was tucked in a little alcove of the kitchen and afforded a view of the long, narrow room, where Aunt Frances busied herself at the stove, preparing breakfast for four hungry, pajama-clad little girls. As I was living in Wisconsin at that point in my life, it was during these visits to Memphis when I was introduced to staples of Southern fare. Aunt Frances’ table introduced me to not only my first cheese grits, but my first biscuits with sausage gravy and watermelon sprinkled with salt, among many other things. My grandmother was not the best cook in the world and I

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