It was a sweltering summer day in Louisiana. My 8-year-old self stood in the kitchen of my paternal grandparents’ home in Shreveport, watching with fascination as Grandma Collins stirred the hot pot of boiling figs, on their way to becoming preserves. With sweat running down her brow, just beneath the thin brown elastic that kept her hair net in place over her thinning curly hair, she turned to me and said, “You know, Virginia, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” With that piece of wisdom pronounced, she simultaneously clicked her cheek and winked her eye at her wide-eyed granddaughter, leaving an unforgettable impression.