Every Sunday afternoon, my grandma made cornbread. It wasn’t written in any recipe book—she just knew when it was right. The smell filled the kitchen before anyone even saw the pan, and that was how we knew it was going to be a good day.


She said her ancestors made food the same way: with memory instead of measurements. Cornbread wasn’t just food to her—it was comfort, history, and love baked into one dish. She’d tell stories while the bread cooled, tapping the counter as if the past was listening too.


Sometimes the cornbread came out perfectly golden. Other times it cracked on top or crumbled too easily, but she never complained. “That’s how you know it’s real,” she’d say with a smile. Sitting at the table, eating warm pieces with butter melting through, it felt like her ancestors were right there with us, sharing the moment.


Long after the plates were empty, the feeling stayed. The cornbread was gone, but the warmth wasn’t. In that small kitchen, with that simple food, my grandma reminded us that love doesn’t have to be fancy—it just has to be shared.

– Leylan.M

Relationship:  Im/migrant Im/migrant