When I was a little girl there was an old couple, the Rydmarks, that lived next door. I used to love to spend time visiting them. They would tell me stories and I would help them bake cookies or peel carrots. It was like having an extra set of grandparents. Everytime I was at their house, just as I was getting ready to go home Mr. Rydmark would say "don't forget your kiss" and he would slip a butterscotch kiss into my hand. That sweet buttery little piece of heaven wrapped in crinkly yellow cellophane. I was telling my son, who was 3 or 4 at the time, about the Rydmarks and the butterscotch kisses Mr. Rydmark always gave me. He thought about it, looked at me a little confused, cocked his head, and said "butterscotch kisses?". I explained to him what they were. He remembered once I described them. There was a long pause and he said "oh, I thought you meant he had butterscotch lips". Because in his world this was possible. Sometimes I wish I could remember when having butterscotch lips was within the realm of possibility.
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