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Sunday breakfast was what she called a "puttiby," something light to tide them over until dinner time. Dinner was the big meal of the week. At every meal I sat beside my mother. If we had stir-about, I was favored, but not enough to arouse jealousy: I scraped the pot. If it was "tay," I got a few bits of the crust of Anna's bread. We called it "scroof."
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