Grandma’s tin pan hung over my stove

When I think of my Grandma, the first memory that comes to mind isn’t a sight or sound or event, but the warm and welcoming scent of home-cooked meals. Hot bread. Sizzling bacon. Blackberry cobbler.

The kitchen was important to Grandma. It was the place where she put her heart. The product of her labors there were sustenance for the ones she loved. Like her, the meals she made were never ostentatious. They were practical, undecorated, unmolested by exotic spices. Ham with black-eyed…