My mother stayed with us during her recent visit from back east. She
emerged early each day from the back bedroom in need of coffee. In the
kitchen she would find me up to my elbows in three-grain biscuit dough
or in the midst of mixing a large oven baked pancake, or perhaps
dropping oatmeal scones onto a cookie sheet. I was always in the midst
of something made from scratch, time consuming and terrifically messy.
A ritual that was met with a quizzical look and her quiet reproach, as if I couldn’t hear her say, “Nu? Whats wrong with frozen waffles?” My childhood breakfasts came straight out of a box from the freezer in the cold mid-western kitchen where I grew up. My mother taught in downtown Detroit, and early morning school days were mostly about getting up and getting out. Yet, somewhere in between the up and out part, I remember a breakfast ritual that my mother and I shared, just her and I, before she left for work.
We're not sure who makes these decisions...
I have a vivid memory of my parents entertaining friends on Christmas
Eve in 1982. My mother threw all of her Protestant tradition out the
kitchen window and ordered Zingerman’s pastrami on rye sandwiches with giant garlic
pickles. I was enthralled by this rebellion at age six, although I had no
understanding of what pastrami was. I just knew it was special.
I can’t help it. I really can’t. 
Ask any New Orleanian where to get the best po-boy in the city and
almost every single one will tell you to go to a different place.
Po-Boy restaurants are as much a part of personal identity as the
neighborhood you grew up in – like a family heirloom, po-boy preference
is often handed down from generation to generation. And while die-hard
patrons of Parasol's refuse that anywhere else makes as good of a roast
beef po-boy, those who are loyal to Mother's will tell you that their
roast beef debris simply can't be beat. And who could forget Ye Olde
College Inn – a New Orleans staple.