In said writing class, we were assigned to read a profile of Mr. Rogers. It turns out the link broke (or something?) just a week before we were assigned to read it, which left me so very disappointed. Fortunately, the author, Tom Junod, didn't write only one great piece, so our instructor directed us two shorter essays he wrote. They were both about family, and both were jaw-droppingly, pen-stoppingly good (as in, I don't think I can write now that I've read his stuff). Ok, maybe I'm being dramatic, but they're good. I'm taking notes on his characterization, which is for sure one of my weak points.
All that to say: Junod's essay on his mother and cooking is the kind of writing I aspire to. It's about food, and about so much more than food. Here's a tiny taste:
(After I read it, I turned to one he wrote about his father and liked this one even more, which I didn't think possible. Get ready to laugh.)
My mother, Frances Junod, was not just a mother, not just a mom. She was a dame. She was a broad. She was a beauty from Brooklyn who wore fantastic hats, when they were in style, and furs, even when they were not. She went through her entire life as a Harlowesque platinum blonde, and I never knew the real color of her hair. She liked go to the track, and she liked to go out to restaurants. She did not like to cook