My mother is Superwoman. In the fall of 1993, she took a hiatus from her home and country to chase her dream of becoming a film maker in a city where she knew neither a person nor the language. She had two children, one husband, six classes. And she cooked. She cooked most every night. From rice to chicken to fish she journeyed to locate in land-locked Southeastern Ohio to satisfy our Middle-Eastern seafood requirement. In 3x2 feet of dirt bordered by red building bricks, with her hands she nurtured herbs and vegetables that went into our eager stomachs. She resisted the temptation to give my three year old chocolate-addict of a sister even more of it. And at the end of it all, she would wash the dishes and open up her textbooks late into the night.

Fast forward to 2004. Yours truly makes a similar decision to leave her home and her country to pursue her dream of becoming... an undeclared college freshman. The parallels are already absent. My first year I ate blessedly at a wonderful place known as the campus dining hall. Chicken tenders every week was heaven at 17. Grilled cheese? Delicious and filling. Not a problem. And then, year two was marked by a move into an empty, grown up apartment and an empty kitchen. I bought my microwave-safe plates and discount grill and was ready to go. With the exception of one occasion that morphed into a scarring episode of burnt steak, cooking was not my priority even as I transitioned to countless other apartments, from undergraduate to graduate school. It has been five long years of ramen, frozen waffles, and endless takeout. The only savior has been when I visit home and eat... my mother's cooking.

We've entered a new decade, I have a Trader Joe's not a five minute walk away from my apartment, and it is time for me to cook.