For as long as memory serves, the kitchen always seemed to be where the life of the home flourished and a natural area for the family to congregate. It’s the heart of the home, where coffee brews, laughs are shared, and memories are made. It’s where I remember my grandma the most. At some point in time, after graduating from the Easy-Bake Oven, it’s where I learned that food connects us to one another and, as time goes by, our pasts.

I’m a fairly decent cook and baker, though I’m the first to admit I’ve had my fair share of flops. I can count on my family to keep it real and give me honest feedback which sometimes includes, “It’d be okay if you never make that again”, which I can handle because when I hear, “This is so good!” well then, you might as well be singing my song.

You’re likely to find me in the kitchen with a dish towel slung over my left shoulder, evidence of creating or concocting something on the counters, and let’s be honest, likely on my shirt as well.


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