Cooking is Love made Visible ----Final Draft

Cooking is Love Made Visible

Food can have varied meanings, as everyone has their own interpretations or memories. For me, food is representation of meetings, family and friend get togethers ect. Being able to hae food be the center of my activities has brough me to a peaceful and happy time in life. Remembering old recipes from when I was ten and possibe even younger, there is something so pleasant about knowing I can pass these on. It is similar to a family airloom, that gets passed from generation to generation, yet stay within the family. Food in acts as a binding for my family, being togther can be and is enjoyable. However adding food to equation can make the experience more palattable and devine.

Growing up in a split family brought to the table many options for meals, introduced at an early age. As, I had four parents at the age of four with everyone finding pleasure in different tastes and falvors of food. I can remeber the simple nights with the most heavenly Macaroni and cheese with cylender shaped meat cut up and tossed in with the Macaroni for a little protein. I remember being at my mom/dad's house and calling the other parent to see what they were having for dinner. The answer to that question Solely depended on where I stayed that night. In reality, all one would have to say is I'm baking cookies for dessert. Going from a child to an adult brought many changes for me, when it came to food.

Becoming a young adult has definetly impacted my life in multiple ways, but the most promenant way has got to be food. I can now cook and prepare meal for myself, meaning that I am no longer help to what is prepared for me. I enjoy attempting to cook. However, I have always found pleasure in baking which does not suprise me as, that is something passed down generation's. My grandma alwasy had a knack for baking, my favorite past time of her baking is that nothing she made came from a can or a box. Thus made her Chocolate Chip Cookies a treat, not only did the aroma fill the air with a sweet scent but, when taking a bite it was a fluffy sugary delight with a tuch of chocolate morsales in every bite. Family Traditions still remain in my family and we take them seriously. It is a tie fr all of us to join as one and take pleasure in our family and too see the old recipes come to life.

One of our biggest family traditions, is Christmas Eve. My family would pile into the car with excited eyes and hands full of present's and sweet treats, from Grandma's Recipe book. As we would head out on to the open road of Interstate eighty we would sing along to Christmas songs playing on the car stereo, as music is cover of our binded family. We always did a pot luck for dinner on this night. Green Bean Casserole was a delight for me to bring as it tasted so delicius with tender green beans in a soupy flavor mixed with crunchy onions atop. Although, visiting with what felt like long lost family members I found pleasure in seeing a part of my Grandma at Christmas . I often wondered if she was there in spirit with all her old recipes taking life and breathing and being able to live through her children and grand children.

My Grandmother was an amazing baker. However she never did bake proffesionaly it was more of a hobby for her. She found true happiness in baking. Some of my Grandma's Recipe's that are still consistent in my family is her fudge. Home made and of all different types from Chocolate to White Chocolate, some with nuts and fresh fruit.With every bite I took of my Grandma's fudge the more I wanted as, it just completely had the melt in the mouth affect. When I was a child I loved to eat cake and sweets, yet becoming an adult flavors and textures changed for me. I despise the sponge texture of cake, the only cake I will eat is Chocolate Chip Cake. (Grandmas Recipe) For the longest time I had assume the recipe belonged to mom or dad, as I got it every year on my birthday since the time I was eight. Come to find out that not only on Holidays but, even on my birthday's a peice of my Grandma was with me. My parents also enjoy cooking and baking following my grandmas recipes for the most part.

Food has a way of happiness in my family. I beleive for my family it's a gene that's in out blood stream. My Dad finds happiness in baking as, his mom did. (my Grandma) Baking puts a smile on his face and makes his eyes glisten, as if to resmble him helping hi mom as a child. In 2004 my dad was diagnosd with Diebetes, this changed everything for him. Learning to bake all over again was difficult but he found a way, a new way of life some would say. Finding a way to make my Grandma's recipes in his baking, shortly became natural. My father also enjoys to cook, but preparing meals as me and my sisters were little were not so pleasurable. Coming home from a long day at work and sometimes school and prepare meals for three children was difficult. Thus, making easy dinners best suited for him. Now that all three of his children are grown, he can now enjy cooking and preparing amazing meals and he continues to bake frequently.

My mom also takes pleasure in cooking for her family. Although, it was not always this way. I can remember being a child and having her cook dinner, for her three children after a long day of work. She would often make easy dinners as sh had three mouths to feed, hers being the fourth. So as a parent having to work and then come home and be a mommy to her kids, I can see how simple worked for her. Now that all of her children are grown and can now cook for themselves, I find pleasure in cooking for her and my step dad. I often see why easy dinners worked, as I work part time and go to school full time. Easy dinners always took less then thirty minutes. My parents were not always worried about Nutrition but what was convenient for my family.

None of my family worried about what was healthy, however we worried about what pleased and gave pleasure to our palette. Growing up i always assmed healthy food can be good for me. Althugh, I have been able to find alternatives for sweets, like a substitute for sugar or I can make food with fresh herbs grown in my own backyard. Food is a neccesity to life so, why not make it have flavor and be toothsome.

Making food have flvor doesnt mean it is healthy, as my Grandma's baking was never really healthy but is tasted so scrumptious. The definition of happiness will not have the word food in it, but it is however an open ended Defintion. Make it what I want, withought having food as a big porion of my family activitis I would not have such fond memories o family and happiness within.

In the end, my famly will remain bound by food and fond memories of family recipes and the presence of my Grandmother in the kitchen whenever I myself or others in the famly are baking, she resides next to us the whole way through our baking experience. Overall enjoy it while you can and while you have thse to enjoy it with, even though my Grandma is no longer around it is like she is beking with me whenever I'm using her recipes.

Good'Ol Hot-N-Spicy's [Writer's comment]

First off I'm sorry for all those spaces I tried to take them away but they kept coming back every time I pressed the "Publish Post" button. Second the essay I made it like a story again since I love doing stories, next time I'll try to do something different. The whole idea of having the story was to show how me and my friend always came back to McDonald's through good or bad times. I hope you all appreciated me adding the nutrition facts stuff at the end of the essay. I thought that was clever. Thank you for reading. God Bless.
-Kevin Turcios
P.S.- I lost the notes that spoke about where to publish the writers comment. [Sorry]

Feeling Lucky Final Draft

Have you ever felt extremely lucky, or had one of those days that just seem to go exactly how you wanted it to go? Saint Patrick's day is celebrated for luck and a lot of other different reasons and in a lot of different ways, and in my family we celebrate it as all out as we can with parties and great food. While we all have different reasons for celebrating this magnificent day the main reason I do it is to celebrate the good luck I've had and look forward to the good luck coming my way.
Family heritage is one of the best reasons to celebrate this day and the Mitchell family has more than enough reason to celebrate with our deep heritage. With an entire side of the family stemming from Ireland, this day is an opportunity for family to get in touch with our roots. Where people are from dictate many things like how they look, what they like to eat, or even how they act. For the family it means eating what we remember, acting like we do, and mostly getting together and celebrating. Throughout this entire day family will say call or come say hello from grandpa's to grandma's to uncle's and aunts all calling to get in touch with family and talk about where we all came from. Talking about subjects that span from family history to plans for the day. Its a busy day but all worth as people seem to tell something new every year from learning about what and who are our family really is. Throughout the years I've learned about great great grandpa's and distant relatives who have somewhat committed something of importance to our family, and each year our family gets a little closer through sharing these facts and stories.
After jobs and school is when the real fun begins music is played as loud as speakers can go and games are played and laughs are shared. As the family proclaimed Irish chef the fun and frivolities are short parts of my day as cooking the gigantic meal for the day takes hours upon hours and we usually end up eating around eight o' clock even if i had started at two. A good Irish meal for the family is many courses and many types and variations of potatoes, meat and bread. The meal preparation starts out with the dishes that take the longest to make and end with the quickest and somehow whether it's luck or not the vast array of courses is always completed and nobody leaves hungry. I've been the chef of this meal for the past five years and as my family says no one can make it as authentic and home made.
It started while in high school and I began taking various cooking classes in which I not only excelled but found something I generally enjoyed doing. Every recipe I made seemed like it was exactly how its supposed to be with no imperfections. With my cooking group we made many delicious meals and aced many cooking projects with our excellent food. It was only when a certain project came my way when my cooking for the family career began. The class was asked to make food from where we where from, from our heritage. Knowing my heritage well from the many years of St. Patrick days celebrated it was more than simple to find and pick out a few recipes from one of our many family recipe books. The dish chosen to start with was the in beginner level of cooking, Irish potato bread. Through several practice runs it was instantly a hit and my classmates loved every crumb of it. With my new confidence I tried it once at home for the family and again an instant hit. From there I tried my hand at several other dishes and throughout time I even made my own additions and took away what wasn't needed and became what I thought either a accomplished or just a plain lucky Irish cook. When the big day arrived I offered to make my dishes for the family and unknown to me it would be the start to a great tradition.
I made my versions of Irish potato bread , soups, meat dishes, and many other types of bread that day, but when it came to my last dish is when it turned from a good meal to a great and memorable one. The family's favorite dish by far that first day was the Fried Cabbage and Bacon. They couldn't get enough of it as they gobbled it down and asked for seconds and then thirds. From that day on I was made the official cook for the family for every St. Patrick's day to come.
Throughout the five years I've added many dishes to the menu. The entire meal last year involved potato bread, soda bread, potato and leek soup, Dublin coddle, and Fried Cabbage and Bacon. While I'd like to add more the main restriction is time and if I did add my family would never get to eat. Instead the recipes are substituted for other ones each year. Soup could be traded with a sausage dish or bread with a potato dish and so on. the hearty and sometimes spice of different types of meat, most often sausage. However different the meal plan is the taste can always be a little similar. Many of the recipes call for the starch and bitter taste of potatoes or the hearty and sometimes various spices of different types of meat, most often sausage. That's often why many ingredients are switched and substituted for others for example peppered and seasoned bacon over regular bacon. No matter the substitutes it always turn out different but still fantastic. Making it different each year is part of the pull and leaves family and friends to wonder what food will meet there taste buds this year.
Each year I want to add something new and I hope I'll be lucky enough for it to go well enough or for me to be able to finish it and for it to taste amazing as it always does. That's why my family celebrate the day though for great amounts of luck in life and that our family will always be willing to come closer and connect over delicious food on St. Patrick's Day.

The Bird Who Brings Us Together, Second Draft

Holiday is synonymous with feast in my family, and for the feast of all feasts, every member of my family braces themselves for a long, but rewarding day. Once a year, for Thanksgiving, my mother abandons boxed macaroni and vacuum-packed hot dogs, and actually goes grocery shopping. Her focus turns about a week before the big day and she spends her time hunting down the fattest bird, lying in his death bed of ice. She also uses her motherly instincts to accumulate a very well-educated guess in the number of potatoes that await her furry, turning them into an obliterated spud flesh perfection.

I take the task of creating the masterpiece which may only be known to the world as green bean casserole –personally, the name should be revised and something along the lines of “the casserole of all casseroles” and should be worldly accepted.

To create such bliss, I first search the family pantry for my victims. The pantry poses problem though, as it resembles a wild, untamed jungle of metal cans and open bags of timeless potato chips. Usually finding the concealed French cut green beans in the middle of a sea of other canned vegetables, my luck runs short with the stuffy, thick cream of Mushroom soup. But not to the tricky little fungus’ avail; I quickly catch it lying hidden behind a random box of Saltines crackers that age back to my original birthday. As I begin my quest in creating a gift from heaven, my brother stumbles about just above the kitchen in our spare bedroom. He doesn’t realize the racket he makes with every step, but today, Thanksgiving Day, no one is concerned with telling him.

My mother and I in the kitchen, my brother and father bump into each other throughout the rest of the house as they scramble to clean. In the eyes of my brother, cleaning means taking everything in sight, and moving it out of sight. With no place or purpose, I watch as he loads his lengthy arms with last Sunday’s paper’s remains, and those few, misplaced, mismatched socks that the cat drags from upstairs to her sanctuary on the living room couch. He crosses our creaky wooden floor, steps onto the freshly cleaned, older-than-dirt carpet, and meets our family computer. Quickly he throws the heap of household memories onto the desk which the computer sleeps. “Clean” reads the caterpillar eyebrows on his face. Returning to the unorthodox dungeon upstairs –which he claims is his own bedroom, my brother disappears until the riveting sent of turkey and stuffing find its way to the senses of my brother’s angry appetite.

My father’s thunder is about to roar. His refined culinary skills are reserved for these very special days. He knows exactly how to spice our bird and its stuffing. He chops young, tender slices of vibrantly orange carrots into near-perfect squares. Next, the unsuspecting celery says goodbye to its head of greenery. Like a hot knife slicing through the thin top layer of butter, my father makes a swift incision through the lifeless green body. The celery slices beautifully, and I imagine the stringy muscles of the vegetable which would have remained if anyone but my father had tried to cut the thing so delicately. After finishing up with the stuffing, the king of the kitchen moves to gratifying gravy for my mother’s lost potato souls. The white heaps of lifeless spuds resemble a heavenly mountain for the hungry fool, but my father knows that the simple joy is not quite complete. Taking the last juices the bird knew, my father cradles the heavy, blue-specked iron roaster, again as old as me, and drains seasoned, deliciously brow coating into a new bowl. From there it’s a mystery, and I leave the kitchen to keep the magic alive. When I next return, gravy, mashed potatoes, turkey, stuffing, green bean casserole, French bread, and canned, thinly sliced cranberry line the counters, ready to fight the seemingly ceaseless battle that is hunger on Thanksgiving Day.

My heart races as my eyes widen to take in all, and just as things begin to slow and transform into that motionless bliss that is frozen time, I hear the rickety rack of my grandmother’s walker, and my sister’s beautifully loud laugh lingering on the outside lawn. Never an orthodox young woman, my sister has finally arrived (fashionably late, as she will forever claim) with the woman who started it all. My grandmother, now limited through her past strokes, still has a keen sense of good eats when she smells them, and she races up our walkway with her walker combated with tennis ball booties to keep the sound minimal. But the sound of her well-known, well-rehearsed quest to our front door rings loudly, and it wouldn’t be the same day had we forgotten to listen.

I walk to the heavy, white metal screen door, push it open into the bright Colorado sunshine that warms our home the way the oven currently is, and watch for three nosey little kitties to try and make there get-away. My grandmother and sister finally reach us, and bring more to the table. Not only does my sister carry with her a large, silver-coated serving platter, (that was once the prized possession of my grandmother’s) on it, mounds of deliciously decorated cookies, Brownies, and other sweets, but she carries with her an imageless comfort.

With my sister, my grandmother, my brother, father, mother, and me, our family has reunited for a single, pleasant afternoon. We still await a second, near-family family, who bring home-made dips, chips, and other “munchies” but in these few precious moments we stand like sitcom TV stars reminiscing in outrageous memories. The smell of our hard work lingers, and taunts our aching bellies –which all of us, including the dog, have starved in order to truly devour and indulge in our upcoming meal. It is most comforting to me when I stand just out of the way, catching bits and pieces of lovely language sprawling out of each family member’s mouth. Looking at the only partially organized house that I call home, I know that there isn’t any place better.

Time passes and the evening continues. My father and brother set our large, banquet table (which we acquired from the hotel my father worked at long ago) and I set out some homemade place mats. My sister is in charge of dishes and drinks, and my mother watches over my grandmother in the kitchen. Our long-time friends arrive, and we finally allow ourselves to snack. The homemade dips and fresher bags of potato chips go to use, and before long we all accumulate next to our 70’s oven in which a plump little bird awaits to consecrate a beautiful memory.

My father finds our single electric cutting knife, reserved only for today, and cuts the meat perfectly. I find some soup spoons, ladles, and anything else large enough to support a serving and make the gourmet cuisine approachable. We at last make our way into the older-than-dirt carpeted living room where the banquet table stands proud, and find our seats. My mother and father grouped as one, then my brother and his best friend, myself at the end of the table, two more friends, circling about the other side, and next to them my sister and her “always made it” fiancé. At the other end of the table sits my grandmother. This moment in time will forever be pictured in my mind’s photo album. Physically, we have but one thanksgiving picture, taken when my grandfather was still with us, and that’s really all we need. Memories of the meal that bring us all together stand strong and frivolously in each of our minds, as is expressed through the smiles, laughter, and vision the family exudes as one.

Where do Babies Come From? (Draft 2)

Where do Babies Come From?

: And Other Blood Chilling Questions.

This is the story of my best friend that ever lived. My best friend died saving my life, and lives on in another form protecting me from other certain dooms that seek to snuff out my life like a dying candle drowning in its own wax. I met my friend, a truly fabulous individual, when I was very young. I can’t remember the first time we met, but I smile every time I think about the time we have had together.

This story has nothing to do with me.

My Best Friend Came From:

“I came from a small place. It was very cramped and I barely had what I needed to grow. I was outside when I was very little, completely exposed to the elements. I was unsure if I would survive, but I wanted to and worked very hard at it. Survival was my reason for being. I lived in the dirt, hollowing out places to lay down when I could but laying on plain rock when I couldn’t. I was too little to be safe around fire, and could never run fast enough to escape a wild fire so I never risked getting burned. Healing would have been difficult without running water. I always heated myself in the sun every time I could, and fought for shade when it was hot enough to whither me up like a dead lizard. I had to wait for rain if I wanted a shower, and when I wasn’t near a stream I would dig for water to drink. I would breathe deeply and stay relaxed no matter what crossed my way. I had a dog pee on me once or twice, and if I hadn’t stayed relaxed or breathed deeply I might have shriveled in on myself like a dying mushroom. Stress has a way of tearing me down to my roots, and being still very little a dog can do a lot of damage. I worked hard to stay alive, taking what I could get, making food out of it, and even sharing with anyone or thing that came along hungry. I grew fast, because I worked very hard to make my own food out of nothing. When you come into a world without rules, anything is possible.”

My Friends Strengths

“Once I was big enough to be influential, I began building things and being noticed. Nobody notices the little guy, but when you start making things they want… well some people don’t ask they just take. There are some wonderful people out there who helped give me what I needed to build, and never took the last of my things, so I would always have one of everything I made. Sometimes I would just get rid of everything though, so I could start over new. I started small, making art. I made the most beautiful things… If Rembrandt could see me now! Sometimes I would use just one color, solid and without form, but when the light hit it…

Sometimes I would use so many colors, that I could make a rainbow jealous. Some people really like when I use every shade of one color. It is truly beautiful.

My art eventually got big enough, that it became homes. Bird houses, squirrel homes, and eventually homes for people and even skyscrapers. I was very popular for a long time. I still am in some circles. There are so many people that have copied my designs, that very few know I was the inspiration. My designs have become common place. Everyone has seen or used my designs, even in lost tribes of the Amazon or Africa.

…..

It was all for my survival.

……”

My Friends Death

I was minding my business one day in early spring, when I was brutally attacked. There were so many blades I didn’t see them coming. It was an absolute frenzy. There were people and animals alike, all tearing down everything I had worked all my life to build. Teeth and blades ripped my flesh apart in various excruciating manners. I could not run. There was no place safe, and I was surrounded. While much of my flesh and skeleton lay scattered on the ground ‘mulch,’ some of my flesh was eaten! I was torn to bits scattered to the winds and harvested for food! Nobody thought twice.

I had done nothing to any of them, except in eating me I tried with earnest to give them a belly ache and make them think twice about eating my family.”

My Friend’s Food

My friend is a producer, a maker of some of the most excellent and exotic foods ever made. A lot of them are toxic to eat, but some eat them anyway. Many foods my friend makes are very common at the markets across the world. My friend is very well traveled. My friend always works sun up to sun down and sometimes through the night to make the most delectable food, nobody can survive without it!

My friend is the only one who makes it, and is murdered for it.

My friend is a plant, not just one but every plant is my friend.

Plants are unique. They photosynthesize. They take our dirty nasty breath and emissions and various waste gasses, and turn them into oxygen and food. It sounds simple, but it’s not. It is the full effort of every plant to photosynthesize. Without photosynthesis there would be no food. It is the beginning and end all of food.

And Here Is The Recipe.

What do You do?, to get food (draft 1)

What do you do to get food? Do you grow it? Do you use one of the many drive up windows? Does it fall magically from the sky? Is it free? Where does your food come from and how much effort do you use to get it? Think about the things you do throughout the day and how much energy you use. How much of that is devoted to food every day?

INSERT

?

HERE

OMNIVORES

I am an omnivore. I eat Organisms. I am an opportunist. I eat things that are easy to get. I shop at the grocery store, and mix processed ingredients when I cook. I learned this from my family. I eat when I am hungry, tired, lonely, sad, bored, and excited.

BUT I hate food

various photos of omnivore, carnivore, herbivore, scavenger, then producer, then sun

Love and Memories Never Forgotten (Final)

The crisp refreshing autumn air, the musty scent from crushed leaves and the contrasted golden and green trees generally brings to the forefront of my mind the time in my life for which I would be changed forever. My naïve 15 year old self would never be the same. I've never really had the opportunity to share this moment in my life with that many people. I never thought that I really should. I hate having people feel sorry for me; in fact, it is not a sorrowful thing to me. I've grown through this and I am grateful for what I am left with: love and memories

Only one person existed whom I could tell my problems to and just let my heart pour out like a cascading waterfall: it was my mom. In the autumnal months, especially with hefty appetites (must be from our bodies needing to fatten up for the winter) baking sweets was a necessity for my mom and I. In our snug baking area the heartwarming scents of delicate sweet strawberries tingling with powdered sugar or chocolate chips melting upon saccharine cookie dough could thaw away any bitterness. March 2005. I remember my mom calling all of us to the living room to talk. “This is just a family meeting to tell my brother and me to do our chores the right way,” I anticipated. “BJ, Katie,” my mom spoke. “I just wanted to let you know that I love you two VERY much. God is with us all the time and He’s still with us now. Today I went to the doctor… and they told me that I have breast cancer.” I froze. I couldn’t move. She told us how they had caught it early and that it would be an easy process. At that point, I started laughing awkwardly in confusion. I had no idea how to respond. My little brother probably didn’t understand either. He was six years old and understood that she was sick and needed medicine. I knew that cancer was a horrible disease that attacked the body, and sometimes victims of it did not survive. I went to my room and broke down. I couldn’t talk to my mom and pour my heart out about it, I just couldn’t this time. Here and there, my mother would have to go in for chemotherapy treatments and one of the types of food that helped her recover, while enduring an achy body and a metallic tang due to chemo, was sweets. In all honesty, sugary sweets made our whole family feel better and more relaxed. Just a morsel of this indulgent substance could melt away worries as it slowly trickled down the throat. Cooking together, as we made chocolate covered pretzels and gingersnap cookies, allowed for a deeper type of healing; a type of healing that brought us together as it healed our emotions. Mixing, melting, and making may have helped in the actual suspension of the cancer because the cancer started to dissipate and things were looking better after eight long months. There were very few “spots” with cancer. Life started getting back to normal. Normal for us was not having to worry about my mom.

January 2006, it returned. This time called Inflammatory Breast Cancer. This kind of cancer was stubborn and my mom needed a specific and new type of treatment that would be tried out for one of the first times on my mom. In order for this treatment to instigate, she would have to stay in Houston, Texas for about six months. As her young teenage daughter, who was going to be stuck with my dad and younger brother, I didn’t want her to go. I missed my mom so much and all the cooking that we didn’t get to do in-between. For us, cooking was a way to connect. My dad knew how to cook, but cooking together as mother and daughter has a different sort of meaning. It means girl talk and my dad couldn’t offer that bond. My mom and I talked every night on the phone and she told me about her day in Houston and I told her about my day at school and about some of the struggles that I had dealt with that day. She missed my first dance (8th grade social), but I knew that she was still thinking about me, while at the same time, flushing her body of the awful cancer.

Every day after school, my best friend Allison and I walked to the elementary school from the middle school to pick up our younger siblings. One day, as we were about to find a spot to sit down Allison stopped. “Hey Katie, is that your mom?” she asked. I looked closely and replied, “No, she’s in Houston, remember?” I took one more glace to make sure that it really wasn’t her because I had thoughts and hallucinations that she was there sometimes. Then I quickly glimpsed once more and saw that it really was my mom. I ran to her, so full of joy and excitement, and gave her the biggest hugs that I had ever given.

My mom was not back from Houston because her treatments were finished, she had come back early because the treatment had some problems. I did not know this at the time and I didn't question my mom's presence back at home. I was absolutely thrilled to have her back.
May 2007. The cancer gradually took a hold of my mom, but did not take a hold of her faith. The next few months my mother continued to visit the hospital for her treatments. She eventually had to spend weeks at a time in the hospital as the cancer continued to grow. During the holidays though, and every time that autumn would roll around, we whipped out the cookie dough and chocolate foods and other sweets. One of the sweets that we made and that I continue to make every year is Chocolate Coconut Squares. The Coconut Squares in particular are made each year because of the sweet crispy coconut shreads and the indulgent half-melted chocolate chips. Eventually this sugary delight became our favorite recipe during the fall.
Near the end of her life my mom requested for her loved ones certain and special gifts to remind us of her. For my gift, my mom’s friends went about remodeling my room and my mom “hooked me up” with her best friend’s son, who I had a major crush on at the time, to go to freshman homecoming together. She also requested to each of us that we would celebrate her life and not mourn her death. I do so every year around these months of autumn, especially since October is Breast Cancer Awareness month, and near the end of her earthly life (September 26th, 2007) through making the Chocolate Coconut Squares to remember the good times, not the sad times, of love and memories that will never be forgotten.