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The Feminist Kitchen

The Little House on the Prairie books were my Harry Potter, my Twilight, my Boxcar Children, my Babysitter Club, all wrapped into one.

Laura Ingalls Wilder was not only my JK Rowling, whom I respected as a storyteller, she was my Bella and my Nancy Drew, an evolving female lead whose life and trials I loved becoming immersed in.

Few youngsters nowadays seem as interested in historical nonfiction (I say nonfiction even though I know there was a fair bit of pioneer-washing that went on as Laura penned the books with her daughter, Rose, in the late 1930s and early 1940s), but I was *that* girl. The one who hung up a map of all the places that Laura’s family lived. The one who was brought to tears at the idea that there were no living descendants of her family. The one who ignored the existence of the television series

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