From the time I could reach the counter, I was at my mother's side in the kitchen. Peeling potatoes, rolling pie crusts, and learning the difference between a smidgen, a pinch, and a dash. Watching the metamorphosis through the oven window felt like a magic carpet ride as creamy white peaks of meringue darkened to golden brown, and cheese that I had spent hours shredding melted and crisped into the best part of the lasagna. Meals back then were humble, but they were big and hearty and, ususally, delicious. It seems like there was always a big pot of beans and ham hocks simmering on the stove, and fresh corn bread to go with it. There was buttermilk pie. Scratch made biscuits and milk gravy. There were pounds and pounds of potato salad in the summertime. There was fried chicken and homemade ice cream. Then there were the questionable but technically-still-edible proteins that found their way onto the plate before me at dinnertime. "Beef," mom would say a littel too qucikly when I asked what we were having, wondering why my food had it's own taste buds. I still can't stomach tongue. Whether I enjoyed it or not, there was no question that whatever she carried to the table was made with love, and there was plenty of it. We were poor, but we were never hungry. Fast forward a few decades and those memories still make me smile every time I hang an apron around my neck and turn on the heat.