One of my most recent posts was simply a photo that showed what makes me really feel that I’m in my mother’s kitchen.

It’s not the recipes. It’s the tea. And the big ol’ slab of a cutting board with a scorch mark. The recipe box. But not the recipes. My mother doesn’t, and hasn’t ever, needed recipes. But she has them.

I don’t know how many times I’ve said, nor how many times I will say, that I didn’t learn to cook from my mother. That I spurned that offering and have, as such, had to do a lot from scratch a thousand miles away.

I’ve gotten there. I’ve become deeply invested in food and cooking. Thus, my most recent visit home, I expected to cook.… Continue reading →