This was my mother's recipe box, stuffed with formulas for the dishes she loved, some handwritten, others typed, plus a few neatly folded clippings.
It was harmless and of no value except to me, filled with memories.
Those who did this added more ugliness to what must be hate-filled, hideous lives. Perhaps they get high from drugs, but never from homemade caramel-walnut cookies, Christmas peppernuts, chocolate rocks or a coconut layer cake.
The police said they were career criminals, because they had tools and wore gloves. They burst through a security door, gouged out the lock of the old wooden door inside and went on a rampage.
They ransacked rooms, dumped out files, pawed through lingerie, scarves, anything in the drawers of my bedroom and tore apart my closet. Their score--four rooms and two closets trashed. And a terrible mess for me to clean up.
They took any gold jewelry that I had. There wasn't much--a ring my mother had made for me (that's her picture in the photo at right, witnessing a dreadful scene), a few pieces my sister had given me and some things that I had bought on my travels.
They threw aside most of the silver jewelry, because they only wanted what would bring quick cash. But they did take a Mexican basket filled with my travel photos and stuffed other tote bags with my things. I still don't know the extent of what they stole. I'm too dazed.
On the way out through the living room, they threw piano music onto the floor, opened a cabinet and looked in a ginger jar for money, tossing the lid onto a chair.
I survived because I was away. My cats, those who cooked dinner in the previous post, survived too, so that one day we can all have dinner together again. But that will take time, a lot of time, because the thugs stole my appetite too.