I used to think that my Grandma Darlean was the meanest woman that ever lived. All she ever did was fuss at me. "Sherice, clean that up!" "Sit up straight!" I could never do anything right. I just knew that my parents were trying to punish me and were laughing their heads off as they pulled out of the driveway, leaving me at her house every day after school and during the summer.

Grandma Darlean never let me do anything I wanted. Because I was the youngest granddaughter at the time, she would tell me how spoiled I was and that I shouldn't worry my parents. It was her impression that I should stay silent and out of the way. When she watched me at my parents house and I asked if I could go out and play, she would never let me. I never really felt free with her. I tried to do what she asked and yet when I didn't, it just made me want to go home more. I thought she was the most infuriating, suffocating woman.

That is, until I discovered the kitchen. My grandmother was the not greatest cook. God rest her soul, she couldn't even make cornbread, although her baked potatoes and cauliflower were the best tasting ever, which would go down so well with the dishes that my mother sent to hold me over until I got home. Even though she was unable to cook well, Grandma did like watching cooking shows, something that we could agree to watch together. We watched Yan Can Cook and The Urban Peasant on the Public Broadcasting channel every day. We oohed and ahhed over gourmet veggies and chicken, and all sorts of meats that the chefs created. And in that time, we bonded. We really enjoyed watching the finished product.

As an inquisitive child who never really liked to sit, I got the bright idea of turning our tv time into our time together in the kitchen. It started with a salad. She helped me cut the veggies and together we mixed them in with the lettuce and the dressing. All the while, Grandma Darlean was cleaning behind my mess and when I was finally done making one out of the salad, we proudly we ate it with baked potatoes.

So the kitchen became our place. She began to tell me the stories of our history, people that I would never meet became alive again in that kitchen. We talked about her times working in the Chrysler plant while the men were at war and how it felt to have to find another job when they came back. As I learned my history, I experimented with spaghetti, fried chicken, eggs and ice cream sundaes. We also cleaned her jewelry in the kitchen, where

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