I grew up very poor.

She wiped her flour-covered hands on a dish towel and said, “You’re allowed to dream bigger than ‘somewhere.’ You know that, right?”

I shrugged. “It’s hard to dream big when you can barely afford dinner most days. People in my situation don’t usually get to choose.”

She gave me a thoughtful look. “Maybe that’s why you should dream bigger—so you can choose something different for your future.” Then she broke into a gentle smile, her eyes warm. “Listen, you have real talent in the kitchen. You don’t just do what I tell you—you’re tasting the food, adjusting spices, noticing if the sauce is too thick or too thin. Not everyone has that instinct.”

Her words stuck with me for days. The next time I visited, Ms. Allen had a small notebook ready for me. “Write down the recipes that we try,” she suggested. “And if you come up with an idea, jot it down. You never know what might come of it.”

So I did. And gradually, that notebook filled up with dishes we made together: stews, baked fish, roasted vegetables, homemade pasta sauces, and even desserts like banana bread. Every time we completed a meal, I wrote down how we did it. I asked questions, tried new things. When I wasn’t cooking, I was thinking about it. For the first time in my life, I had something that felt like my own special gift.

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