Twizzlers have a permanent spot in our house. They're above the stove, next to the light bulbs. Jim will be glad I've not posted our address here because everyone knows the internet is crawling with miscreants who will stalk your blog and later break into your house to steal your licorice.
If she knows where the Twizzlers are, Willa can not reach them.
She is reduced to asking us for them: "I want lick 'er, please. Willa's own lick 'er? A NEW lick 'er?"
Ironically, the liquor used to be stored in that spot. One vice for another.
In other news, one of my top 5 restaurants in GR caught fire on Friday night. We ate there and left at 9:38 to get to the Celebration on the Grand fireworks a little late. When I was putting Willa to bed, Jim yelled up the stairs, "Little Mexico is burning to the ground." Fire started just after we left. I'm so glad we were not there for the chaos and sadness of evacuating the burning GR landmark.