By Emma Acheson
My grandma’s kitchen is and always had been a warm space, a safe space. As soon as you enter, the scent of something will hit you. Sweet aromas of pumpkin pies, cookies, and cakes mix with fresh corn and green beans on the stove from the garden. I can see my grandma positioned next to the stove, pen and paper in hand. She could never do just one thing, baking also meant writing as she would switch between the stove behind her and the table in front. Her weekly letters to the long list of friends and family get written from this special location. To this day, each letter I received from her carries this warmth from her kitchen. This is a space where grew up, where my mother grew up, where people grow together. This is where my personal love for food and the art of cooking blossomed. I can see perfectly the late afternoon light coming through bay window as we drink sweet tea and play cards. THe soft glow of evening light as we sit down for supper.