The New York Times, June 2022
So they buried her and drove backto the church hall for a potluck:deviled eggs, a neighbor’s homemadesoup, and the local baker’s nut bread.
At the kitchen table as a boy,feet dangling above the floor,a napkin tucked into his collar,the world smelled warm, and of cinnamon.
Humming in a world of her own,his mother flitted like a birdamong the appliances,apron tight around her hips
as she slid the dish of bubbling peachesand browned biscuit under his nose.We are called to eat what is put in front of us—often first from our mothers.
The kitchen is the heart and luckyare those of us with recipes.He is eternal at the window,eating peach cobbler.