My father, sister, and I are not big cookers. Although my father likes to think he can cook, tacos are what we come home to every tuesday night. He makes sure the kitchen is like a Mexican fiesta. The poor, sad taco shells somehow always tend to get burned. My sister defines “cooking” as setting the timer on the microwave. A timer that works its magic heating leftovers from nights before. Although cooking interests me, I often find myself too lazy to make weeknight meals. Fast food and I get along well.
 

My mother’s cooking, my mother’s cooking, something to look forward to every night. When we hear the words “come and eat”, we run like a pack of wild animals to our spots at the table. Warm, baked lasagnas; comforting casseroles; juicy roasts; fresh, zesty salads- you name it, and it’s on the table. The smell drifting through the house like a dream of excitement. A dream that we indulge in every night. Without my mom, we would live off of fiestas, reheated leftovers, and fast food.