Picture it, Jersey City, 1976. (Yeah, I'm a typical product of the tele-sthized generation.) Looking back it couldn't have been more than 8'X10'. Even as a preschooler, I knew it was small. Ironically, I can't recall feeling hugely special anywhere other than that room - Ma Weeze's kitchen, where love was poured into me like sweet, rich hot chocolate on a bitterly cold winter day. Ceramic and metal pots and pans were tools used there to create edible tokens of love for me.
Ma Weeze, or my great-grandmother Louise, was my caregiver before I entered formal schooling. Under her skillful manipulation, dough would form into perfect texture, becoming clean circles with the aid of her deftly wielded drinking glass. Cooked to a golden brown and plated with syrup made by someone's aunt, the biscuits yielded every ounce of their buttery goodness to my waiting taste buds and warmed my belly in a manner only done at home.
Concomitant to the filling of my belly was the filling of my heart. Under Ma Weeze's adept execution of her love recipe, my world-worn tank would reach capacity, becoming symmetric and whole with the aid of her soft caresses and honey-coated words. Satiated to capacity and edified with wisdom made by decades of nurturing, my heart thrived under her care and elevated me from peon to princess in a manner only accomplished when the sole recipient of concentrated love.
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