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Virgin Martyrs’ Chiffon Dessert Begin by cutting, no, crushing the strawberries, then whip evaporated milk, rest in boiling water over high flame. I haven’t made this in years, haven’t thought about iconography in the convent kitchen— Cecilia, agnes, ursula hanging over the microwave, examples of how to lay down our lives over lentil soup. It’s not that I wanted to die, but I wasn’t afraid of it then, could picture myself stiff in a clean, white habit while mourners ate funeral cookies, drank fruit punch. when I heard about the nun, her face shot three times in the Brazilian rainforest, –  – I thought of crushed berries, the way celibacy blooms love like yeast in warm water. Is this why there’s no dessert for mother martyrs— because we won’t die for trees or gods, our lives bound here by a blood-stained cord? –  – ...

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