In their homes, and more intimately, their kitchens, I was always warmly welcomed.
Warm, probably because there was always something delicious being cooked.
Even at a young age, I was offered a helping role, a listening ear and the priceless gift of examples to follow.
There are days in those kitchens I wish I could visit again, recipes I wish I had watched more closely, and soft, fleshy old women I wish that I could still glean advice from.
This series of short essays and stories is an overdue payment of homage on the investments they made in me, a bank note of gratitude for those who are still, thankfully, with me.