I have no fresh-from-the-oven mother-daughter recollections - only the daily creaking of cans being opened and the sucking sound of gelatinous vegetables splurting from their tin-encased vacuums. Her kitchen was filled with smoke and impatience. . . . And so I grew up finding my own path, frying what could not be boiled, winging my way through life without recipes.
Being here? With you? I've met my subconscious, and he's not that sick.