Not my... by Sergio Babenco
When I was going to study at the institute and, accordingly, to live in the shelter, my mother gave me a huge bowl and said that with her I would not die of hunger. Then it sounded very strange to me. It cannot exist on its own. She doesn’t know how to cook herself. How I was wrong then. If something was cooked in a bowl, I could always participate in a bowl. And since such pads were disappearing few, they called me often. And the girls of her from me took something to bake in her as in shape. Sweets were also offered as rent.