The Eiffel Tower is in Cincinnati
“There ain’t no such things as cane sugar,” Susie assured me. Her blond bangs fell into her eyes as she pushed a kitchen chair away from the table. She had the radio tuned to the Columbus, Ohio rock station. Mick Jagger sang about tumbling dice while the chair legs groaned across the floor.
Susie boosted herself from the red vinyl cushion of the chair onto the counter. Her dirty feet wriggled before me from her spindly eight-year-old legs. .
“Mama has them all—white sugar, brown sugar, powdered sugar…mol-las-is.” .
I wiped my nose with the back of my hand and sniffed. .
“Why do we need all that?”
Susie boosted herself from the red vinyl cushion of the chair onto the counter. Her dirty feet wriggled before me from her spindly eight-year-old legs. .
“Mama has them all—white sugar, brown sugar, powdered sugar…mol-las-is.” .
I wiped my nose with the back of my hand and sniffed. .
“Why do we need all that?”