En español | My grandmother — my Noni — was a modest woman, her white hair pinned in a bun and her dress buttoned at the collarbone. She spoke broken English, and food was how she communicated her love. We gathered in her kitchen in waves after each successive Sunday Mass let out. The cacophony of voices of aunts, uncles and cousins, along with the aroma of food, made it a feast before we had taken one bite. … Back to Article
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