Last Christmas, I rummaged through the cabinets in my parent’s new kitchen, looking for something or other but mostly being nosy. Inside were the same ceramic bowls and Pampered Chef paraphernalia from my childhood; the frosty, textured 50s glasses my mother loves so much; and a four-pack of seltzers touting whichever Delta numerical offers federally legal THC these days. A far cry from the time I was in high school and my sister caused an entir…
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