I made really good bread for years. Men have literally bowed before me for my bread. I don't miss it, and I certainly don't miss the mood swings that kind of carb rush creates. Yet I do miss something about it, and it's not what you'd think. It's not the bread. It's the memory of my mother making bread. In our house, like a lot of houses, the best parts went to the males. My father and my brother got the interior pieces — because that's what they liked. My mother and I often got the ends. This time, however, she didn't give me the ends because I was on the bottom rung of the family ladder. She gave me the ends because the ends were the part I loved. Warm, crispy, slathered with butter and fresh honey that dripped off the edges. No wonder I was fat. 😉 But that's not the part that stayed. The part that stayed is that I was the one she gave a “good piece” to rather than the leftover. The good piece. In a house where the default was the opposite, my mother chose me by giving me something I loved. The bread was just the vehicle. The thing I actually miss is being seen like that — being the person someone made a small, specific, unnecessary gesture for. What foods do you miss? What’s the memory or feeling attached to it?