@rosypie3 - Tumblr Blog

Just a reminder that I do not subscribe to the labels of Proship or Anti. I don’t think they are necessary. I think if something that someone posts makes you uncomfortable then unfollow or block that person. Harassment isn’t necessary or needed.

#reminder #yapping

enthyrea

temptation 📿

raggedypina

i DIDN'T posted this one here??!?! DAAAAAAAMN

emhidesart

"You’re murdering me!“

The fox metaphor just goes crazy with this movie

Elle Woods/David Kidney for a friend over on Twitter!!

Can be found here

#elle woods #legally blonde

kamuch-kommando

whatever this is

i115ve

( ˘ ᵕ˘(˘ᵕ ˘ )

the-real-countess

tucking my lovely son into bed

hungwy

someone invents a recipe > their child loves it > they grow up and replicate it for their own child > their child loves it > they grow up and replicate it for their own child > their child loves it > they grow up and replicate it for their own child > their child loves it > (this continues indefinitely)

lias-perpetual-crisis

The funny thing is as a parent you always think, “mine isn’t as good as Nana made it.” But your kid adores it and one day will say “it isn’t as good as my mama made it but the kids like it.”

and on it goes

moami

and so love is passed down the chain of generations, on and on, from mouth to mouth to heart to heart

timeclonemike

Love is stored in the Multi-Generational Game Of Telephone.

the-haiku-bot

Love is stored in the

Multi-Generational

Game Of Telephone.

Beep boop! I look for accidental haiku posts. Sometimes I mess up.

jordisstigander

My family has a cake recipe called “Three Generation Cake.” On the recipe card (old and faded and stained), my father explained the title, “Grandma’s cake, Mom’s frosting, and my stomach.”

Of course, I am now the fourth generation who bakes this cake. (I never met my great-grandmother. She died shortly before my dad met my mother, but he tells me stories about her. She spoke three languages and was trying to learn Portuguese when she died. She wore a fur coat over a muumuu and owned a wolfdog. When she was widowed in the Great Depression, she supported her family by playing piano in a honkey-tonk before lying her way into a radiology position. Her second husband was a British naval officer who was trained on a ship with sails and who gave her jewels by pouring them into a bowl and handing it to her at breakfast.)

My mother used it to make a wedding cake for my sister’s wedding. (My dad insists his grandma would have loved my mom, both plain-speaking women from the midwest.) My brother-in-law fell in love with this cake, to his own surprise, as he loves chocolate and the wedding cake has none. Now it is his birthday cake of choice. I have baked it for him multiple times.

One day my sister will teach her son how to make the cake from his great-great grandmother’s recipe. I will tell him stories about her, this woman I never met but who is so real to me.

The love will continue on.