By: Barbara Wade As I savor sweet, moist raisins, plump as bing cherries, dried, my brother's image flashes in my mind, Mike at twelve, ravenous for raisins. Every afternoon home from school, Mike rattling the red Sunkist raisin box. Raisins popped into his mouth by handfuls, raisins stuck in creamy peanut butter on saltines, celery sticks, graham crackers, raisins smothering rice crispies, cheerios, sugar pops, even shredded wheat. Then less than an hour after supper, Mike back in the kitchen, briskly scraping thick cast aluminum pot back and forth on the stove's electric eye, then a tentative ping or two, finally furious popping, steam escaping, the clean smell of corn. Fond of angel food cake, he learned to bake from a box and for breakfasts, to scramble eggs. Popcorn, angel food cake, eggs, and raisins. What more could he need to survive? |