My dad raved about my mother’s cooking growing up. He came to the table hungry and she fed more than his stomach, she fed his soul with the southern fare of his youth. Chicken fried steak, gumbo with a homemade roux, and heaping bowls of red beans and rice. She baked dessert every few nights, so our home always held the lingering scent of chocolate chip cookies or brownies made from scratch. He sipped from a glass of never-ending sweet tea, until it came time to switch to milk. Sweet tea isn’t nearly as satisfying for dunking cookies. Her food was pure comfort, a place to settle in and rest…
You may already know that I haven’t inherited my mother’s cooking skills, much to my children’s chagrin. To read the rest of the story, hop on over to GraceTable, one of the loveliest tables on the internet where you can pull up a chair and meet the most hospitable writers, readers, and cooks. Join me there?
