Eat, Darling, Eat 

(by Susan McNabb) “Where did those come from?” my mother asked, seemingly astonished that someone had sent a dozen glorious Sonia roses...

(by Stephanie Chambers) My mother did not like to cook. Which was unfortunate because she was actually very good at it—particularly the...

(by Elizabeth Anderson) It is October of 1980, and my two college roommates and I are hosting a party in our new apartment on West 13th...

(by Rachel Cline) One day, when I was 11 or so, I encountered a crafts fair in Greenwich Village. I guess I was out with Patti, the...

(by Ilene S. Goldman) I stopped the spoon halfway to my mouth and stared. “What’s wrong?” Philippe asked. After the good news we’d...

(by Leslie Dannin Rosenthal) “In the dishwasher?” “Yes, in the top rack.” “I don’t get it. Even if you wrap it really well, won’t the...

(by Lisa Cohen) I grew up on a chicken farm in New Jersey, with parents who were a part of the Jewish migration from the city back to the...

(by Laurel DiGangi) Whenever I ate dinner at my paternal grandmother’s home, I secretly wished I was eating my mother’s Polish food...

(by Celeste Miller) In the early 1920s, my maternal grandmother, who had married my grandfather at 17, began traveling from their home in...

(by Lally Pia) I think the sky would fall down if my mother stopped cooking. Let me back up. My parents are Tamils and in the minority...

(by Terri Sutton) My parents’ origin story could have been a Hallmark movie. They met in a textile factory in 1945; World War II loomed...

(by Brigit Binns) Once, I was saved by the sight of some diced carrots. The phone rang on a Tuesday after a three-day weekend: “Your...

(by Lisa S. Greene) “Where’s my knife?” she asks. Mom sits in her wheelchair at the head of the white butcher block table, wearing a...

(by Francesca Costanzo) I was that sensory-sensitive kid, easily awakened just by the sound of my mother opening her tin recipe box. At...

(by Marilyn Strange) As far back as I can remember, my mother hated to cook. She loved food but hated preparing it. She grew up in a...

(by Marcella Cantatore) The day my mum died began like any other. It was a Saturday. She made me breakfast: a soft egg with toast...

(by Julie Cole) A few years ago, my elderly parents traveled from Ohio to my home in Wisconsin. We sat in our sun-filled dining room for...

(by Laney Rosen) The sight of little orange squares was so inviting. One would not imagine such a find to be an actual lifesaver. But you...

(by Natalie Hirt) The knock on the door at 7a.m. was a surprise. Not a pleasant neighborly knock. More of a commanding knock. Perhaps...

(by Pei Ja Anderson) When I think of the meals my mother and I have shared, I am not hit with a wave of culinary nostalgia. There are no...