"Momma, your cooking is the best," Beren says as he scooped another heap of peas and corn onto his spoon.
"Why, thank you," I say. "When I was a girl, I thought my momma's cooking was the best, too."
Toothy, pea-y, corn-y smile. "Why?"
"That's just the way it is. Everybody thinks their momma's cooking is the best."
Now that dinner is approaching, I think I'm craving my Mom's spaghetti, meatballs, and sausage. How does she make it so good? I think I'm starting to feel a little better. Mom?