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.