Entry #1: Porcelain

After spending decades motionless, the porcelain figurines finally came alive as they teetered at the edge of the table. I flicked one. A little boy holding a fishing rod dove into the garbage can and shattered. My sister drew a sharp breath. A little girl with an umbrella went to pieces. The last time we'd broken one, I had to sleep on my stomach for a week. Even though the baby Jesus figurine had slipped from Allison's hand, mom drunkenly blamed me for "playing ball in the house." A smiling clown's oversized shoes cracked as they hit the metal. The next few nights, Allison brought me little zip-lock baggies of ice, looking worse than I did.

I pointed at a painted elephant. Allison clumsily flicked. Porcelain exploded. We took turns down the line until all that was left were silhouettes in the dust. I wiped it clean with my hand.

Allison’s husband had offered to help but we’d sent him and my wife to talk to the funeral director and pick up relatives. We were tired of coming up with respectable sounding lies every time they asked if we were OK.

We moved to the kitchen. Sis called dibs on cleaning out the fridge. A good idea, considering mom had never fixed the air conditioner. At Allison's insistence, I'd driven three hours back to fix it but mom had refused to even let me look at the unit. She claimed to like the hundred degree heat.

I presided over the disposal of the pantry, tossing out cans of liver, fetishistic amounts of lard and flour crawling with tiny weevils.

“Wow. These olives expired more three and a half years ago," my sister said. "Ah, you remember this?” She waved a ceramic container at me before aiming for the garbage.

“Wait, wait!” I cried and tugged the small jar from her hand. Brown, with a faux brick pattern and the strangely abbreviated, "BAR-B-Q SAUCE" it was mom's pride and joy, her "sauce taster."

“Is there any chicken in the freezer?” I asked.

“Yeah, some of the frozen stuff looks like it could still be edible.”

I cleared the stove. After quickly grilling the chicken breasts, I popped the wooden cover from the container and with the attached brush slathered the remaining BBQ sauce over the steaming meat.

“Every year, mom won county with the exact same secret sauce,” Allison said, “Remember that time she used all the prize money to buy us bicycles? Dad nearly killed her.”

“She wouldn’t tell anyone the recipe. You know I won a frat cook off by stealing a jug of the stuff? I never even knew what was in it so I had to tell everyone it was a family secret. Mom found out but she was more proud than angry.”

We each took a bite, savoring the peppercorn heat, the vinegar tartness, the copious taste of Bourbon and the hint of sweetness.