Every single day after school, my paternal grandmother would bring me into the kitchen to feed me. It wasn’t always the food I loved, but it was always food that made me feel good. At that time, I didn’t really understand that this was her way of showing me love. Because, of course, she never ever said the word “love” to me. My maternal grandmother… Oh my. How I miss her!! She passed away when I was a lawyer. And every single time I saw her, she wanted to feed me something. Every single time she made food for me, she made sure it was cut up in a way that made it easy for me to eat! She saved the juiciest, largest morsels for me, saving only the scraps for herself. By the time she passed away, I understood very well how much my grandmother loved me, how much love she showered me with over the years of my life, how that love showed up in the quivering heart of a persimmon, the glistening mounds of bracken, the bowl of perfectly thin handmade knife noodles. Sadly… I did not learn too mu...