I swing my legs on the high stools at Steamboat’s between Dad and Kevin, as neon-yellow liquid cheese soaks into my salty fries and hot dog in their red plastic basket.
(Age 4)
Grandma turns from the cabinet with a smile, bringing down the bright boxes of sugary, marshmallowy Vacation Cereal that she bought to mark the occasion of our visit. (Age 7)
I dip my chewy, puffed-up mochi into tangy, beige hummus forlornly while the other kids trade Dunkaroos for Lunchables. (Age 10)
The junior high lunch lady slaps a greasy burger patty in round sourdough slices onto my tray, and I pull wrinkled bills out of my pocket to buy this forbidden food with my “own” money as a statement of independence. (Age 13)
Dad dishes up scrambled eggs with ham, cheese, and onion each morning before high school, and the warm, nutty smell of his coffee fills the kitchen as we chat. (Age 16)