In June, at the 11th hour before family reunions, I look for something great—not to eat, because my relatives gave up on my cooking long ago—but something that will sell at the family auction. I don’t knit or crochet, and my quilting isn’t worth beans. I have homemade jam on the shelf, but my husband assures me that it needs to stay there.
My one genius project is scanning family photographs and putting them into yard-sale frames—they sell every time,
I’m never going to hang Grumpy Chet on my walls. I wonder if he’d come back to haunt me if I put him on the auction block?