(by Linda Ding)

I haven’t always loved my mother’s cooking. In fact, I used to hate it. But memory does a funny thing, allowing the you in the present to walk back, paintbrush in hand, and color in the past, covering and embellishing as you see fit. I must want to remember always loving my mother’s cooking because the present me does now, but that may also be the consequence of living apart for seven years. Time and memory—the ultimate relationship fixer, guaranteed to soften the harder edges and round out the disagreeable aspects between any two people. Please, use responsibly.

I used to sit down at the dining room table each night with dread, guarding a delicate hope: Tonight will feature something differe