Eat, Darling, Eat 

(by Catherine Gigante-Brown) For the past few years, I’ve been telling my son, “Savor these beans. Grandma Raquel isn’t going to be...

(by Soma Mei Sheng Frazier) ...the hearty Italian sauce inspired by a rich, slow-cooked French stew called ragoût , derived from ragoûter:...

(by Carolyn Swartz) When an extended family lives under the same roof, the maternal figure we most fondly remember can leapfrog a...

(by Dawn Levitt) In my earliest memories of my mother, she did not cook. One such memory involves a can of cream of mushroom soup. When I...

(by Elizabeth Cohen and Aviva Lilith)     Some dishes come with tasks easily divided among generations and between family members. For...

(by Laura Zinn Fromm) I was feeling somewhat glum about the end of summer, and did what I often do when I’m out of sorts—looked for...

(by Susan Ostrov Weisser) When I was a child and no one was around—maybe a babysitting older brother available for dire emergencies but...

(by Kathryn Louise Wood) “When Mama moves to Wilson.” That had been our family’s euphemism for when our mother would die and be buried...

(by Charlotte Adamis) The very first dinner my 25-year-old mother made for the man who would become her second husband, a widower nearly...

(by Crystal Bennett) A one-woman show making everything happen—that’s my mom. When my brother and I were growing up in Westchester...

(by Barbara Sapienza) She squeezed the meat through her fingers. They glistened. The yellow of the yolk slid through—knew just where the...

(by Debbie Weiss) My mother, Thalia, was tall and curvy with auburn hair, green eyes, and an innate sense of style. I can still remember...

(by Karin Clark and Patti Clark) The fragrant scent of rosemary and simmered short ribs wafted from the kitchen, assuring us that we...

(by Dorette E. Snover) Although I wasn’t actually born in the Reading, Pennsylvania, kitchen of my Pennsylvania Dutch family, I did grow...

(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...