This didn’t start with me.
I can still smell the warmth of the kitchen on a brisk December afternoon. We would arrive, bundled in our coats, stomping snow from our boots. The layers of hats, gloves, and scarves would peel off as we climbed the stairs to say hello.
Though she was busy at work, bustling in front of the stove, scurrying to put dinner on the table, she always had time to greet the family, especially her grandchildren. After all, we were the ones she was baking for. Continue Reading