Early on, I learned that the kitchen was a special place. Some of my fondest memories were aromas coming
from my mother’s kitchen. I can never forget coming from school and smelling
her fresh baked bread, baklawa, and rice dishes to die for. I still see the
kitchen as a place that imparts love. And that love should be imparted to the
rest of the world. My parents taught us that sharing a meal, which bestows
kindness, is an obligatory part of life.
It is something, we Americans refer to as old fashioned hospitality. Everyone I knew was invited to a meal. One
never said “no” to an invite. I can see my father actually dragging one to the
table if they refused. The dinner proceeded as such: the guests were invited to
the table first, the house ate afterward then soda was served, followed by tea,
coffee, nuts, and a dessert. As a child, I could not understand why it was
necessary to wait until guests ate before I did. And, at times, I questioned
the gesture. It would be later that I understood the value of the lesson.
The act taught me
there was a bigger world out there, and I was not the center of it. Others
should be respected and considered as well. Most importantly, it showed me that
kindness was a necessary virtue in life if one wanted to live in complacency.
These were priceless life lessons. And I could never be more thankful then to
have learned them.

