When it comes to food, I don’t know about you, but I’ve always said that my grandma knows best. Her dishes are the stuff of legends: the ingredients identifiable and unmeasured, hand-written on now-yellowed paper (if written down at all) and filled with little secrets I can’t seem to figure out. Yet, the thing that makes this food extra special is the images and memories that it invokes: the pie that makes Thanksgiving, the soup that heals me when I’m sick, the smell of the peach upside-down cake that still manages to transport me back to the long summer nights of my childhood. Everything was cooked with love, and when I eat the pie or the soup or the cake, it’s almost as if I’m five all over again, running into her flour-covered apron for a hug.
