I grew up in a quiet place—way out in the middle of nowhere. No neighbors, no friends nearby. Just the land, the animals, and my family: four brothers, one sister, and two parents who knew the meaning of hard work.

Life on the ranch was always busy. Dad woke us up early, every day. There was always something to do—feeding animals, mending fences, hauling hay. But he made sure we had time to play, too. That was our normal.

And when that dinner bell rang? You knew something good was waiting. It was mandatory that we all ate together, no exceptions. Some of the best meals I remember were duck fajitas or venison fresh off the land. We never went hungry. Most of what we ate came straight from the ranch—eggs from our hens, bacon from our pigs, muffins baked fresh by Mom every morning.

We only went to the store about once a month, mostly for baking staples like sugar and flour. Everything else came from the land. Fruit trees planted long before my time gave us plums, oranges, apples, walnuts, peaches, pears—you name it. Those peaches in the summertime? Unforgettable.

Mom was the heart of it all. She baked fresh apple pies, made jams and jellies that tasted like sunshine. When she passed, she took that knowledge with her. I’d give anything to see her again. She was the best cook I’ve ever known.

Now I live on the ranch alone, writing my short stories, watching those old fruit trees—most of them broken down—still standing like quiet witnesses to a life that once was. The ranch is still in operation. My brothers have been replaced by ranch hands. The animals are still here, but it’s different now.

So when you ask me what foods I like to eat? I like the ones that live in my memory. The ones that remind me of home, of family, of a mother whose love was baked into every meal. There will never be another like her. But she’ll be remembered for the rest of my life.