Cherry Topping:
4 cups cherries
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 cup water
1 tbsp lemon juice
2 tbsp cornstarch
Graham Cracker Crust:
24 graham crackers
3/4 cup melted salted butter
2 tbsp sugar
Cream Layer:
1 cup heavy whipping cream
1/2 cup sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 package cream cheese
1/2 cup sugar
Directions:
Cherry Topping: Mix cherries, sugar, water, lemon juice, and cornstarch in a saucepan. Boil, then simmer for 10 minutes. Cool in fridge for 1-2 hours.
Crust: Preheat oven to 375°F. Process crackers, mix with butter and sugar, press in 9×13 pan, bake for 10 minutes.
Cream Layer: Whip cream, sugar, and vanilla. Mix cream cheese and sugar, combine with whipped cream. Spread over crust.
Assembly: Add cherry topping on cream layer. Serve chilled.
The article advises, “Cook the cherry topping until thickened,” and “whip the cream mixture until it forms stiff peaks,” ensuring perfect texture. Enjoy your “homemade cherry delight” that’s sure to “wow your guests.”
I Allowed a Homeless Woman to Stay in My Garage—One Day I Walked in Unannounced and Was Shocked by What I Saw
I tapped the steering wheel, trying to shake the weight on my chest, when I spotted a disheveled woman digging through a trash can. I slowed down, drawn in by her grim determination.
She looked fragile yet fierce, fighting for survival. Without thinking, I pulled over, rolled down my window, and asked, “Do you need help?”
Her response was sharp but tired: “You offering?”
“I just saw you there,” I admitted, stepping out. “It didn’t seem right.”
“What’s not right is life,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “You don’t strike me as someone who knows much about that.”
“Maybe not,” I replied, then asked if she had a place to stay.
“No,” she said, and I felt compelled to offer my garage as a temporary home. To my surprise, she accepted, albeit reluctantly.
Over the next few days, we shared meals and conversations. Lexi’s sharp wit broke through my loneliness, but I could sense her hidden pain.
One afternoon, I barged into the garage and froze. There, sprawled across the floor, were grotesque paintings of me—chains, blood, a casket. Nausea hit me.
That night, I confronted her. “What are those paintings?”
Her face went pale. “I didn’t mean for you to see them. I was just… angry.”
“So you painted me as a monster?” I demanded.
She nodded, shame in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I struggled to forgive her. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
The next morning, I helped her pack and drove her to a shelter, giving her some money. Weeks passed, and I felt the loss of our connection.
Then, a package arrived—another painting. This one was serene, capturing a peace I hadn’t known. Inside was a note with Lexi’s name and number.
My heart raced as I called her. “I got your painting… it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. I didn’t know if you’d like it,” she replied.
“You didn’t owe me anything,” I said, reflecting on my own unfairness.
“I’m sorry for what I painted,” she admitted. “You were just… there.”
“I forgave you the moment I saw that painting. Maybe we could start over.”
“I’d like that,” she said, a smile evident in her voice.
We made plans to meet again, and I felt a flicker of hope for what could be.
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