My grandmother's ancient mixing spoon keeps falling to the floor - a reflexive apology is always in the air as I fumble to pick it up. Her kitchen smells just like it did when I was a kid: equal parts warm sugar and worn linens. I'm a terrible cook. Maybe because I was always trying to replace her recipes, as if that alone would erase the memories of standing on my tiptoes beside her, measuring out the right amount of lemon zest. It never worked, but the tradition has kept me going.
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