Nana’s kitchen was over-clean, hygienic. It had none of the cozy warmth you imagine when you say “grandma’s kitchen.” All fluorescent light and linoleum and plastic countertops. And yet, the sterile impersonality of that place isn’t what I remember. I remember cakes and cookies and casseroles. She was not an extraordinary cook, but I loved her food anyway. She was a product of the fifties, and she relied on processed, canned, Nabisco. But there was an honest desire to please people and show them hospitality. I miss that place and that woman.