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First of all, I am a terrible cook. I even burn water. My mother, on the other hand was a wonderful cook. She also used food to nurture and comfort. She belonged to several different groups, including the Ways and Means committee of her Baptist church. Every occasion was an opportunity for her to cook, and in the process to nurture others. At her church, she was the one who was always in charge when it came to providing the food for wedding receptions, baby showers and funerals. And, she did her job very well. My mother, in essence, was a modern day Medicine Woman for her "tribe."

My relatives would travel from far and near on Sundays just to partake of a plate of steaming green beans, native corn, potato salad and ham. The menu varied from Sunday to Sunday, but the food was always cooked to perfection. The meal would end with smiling faces and dozing uncles in recliners. My mother would collect the dishes, wash them, and lovingly place them back in just the right order. She was a legend in our family as well as in the community. No-one could hold a candle to my mother's culinary skills.

When I was a young teenager, my mother decided to take me under her wing and teach me how to cook. I was the last remaining heir in our clan at that point, and if anyone were to carry on her legend, it would have to be me.

Several weeks later, facing a kitchen caked in flour, an incredibly soiled oven, and several broken dishes, my mother decided that perhaps I should wait a little bit longer to fine tune my cooking skills. In the meantime, she decided that I was to become her apprentice at the "church dinners."

I wasn't really sure what the church dinners entailed. Being the heathen child that I was, I didn't normally set foot in the church. I did know, however, that for two weeks each month, our phone would ring off the wall with people making reservations for the "church dinner." When I answered, I dutifully recorded the name of the person, how many seats they wanted, and which sitting they so desired. That was all the information in my data bank concerning the "church dinner."

My introduction to the public dinners at the church was not a pleasant one. Being the wild child who loved to spend every moment out of doors exploring the local woods, I hated to be confined any length of time at all on my weekends off from school.

But, on the last Sunday of the month, I found myself standing in the small hot kitchen of the church, potato peeler in hand, with a grandmotherly apron tied

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