I’m a 20something living on my own, learning how to turn farfalle and jarred store brand sauce into something my parents might approve of. My story begins, though, much sooner. The rumble of the garage door rolling up, the car’s engine turning off, the beeping sound of the alarm system as my dad came through the laundry room and swept my sister and I, clothed in oversized t-shirts from all the places he’d been, into his arms, smelling of cologne and new leather. It begins with the white mugs and scraped plates and cracked bowls sitting inside my new kitchen cabinets, holding all the memories of a time before this one. Somewhere in the middle, not too long ago, it holds a moment of upheaval, when food became something to fear. Where it ends, though, is in anybody’s guess.