The last time I would ever see you, I finally told you I was a cook. I had been ashamed of this for years, and whenever we talked on the phone I gave you vague answers about how I spent my time. You and Yeh-Yeh worked 18 hour days at the restaurant because you had to and I thought you would be disappointed or confused about my choices. We were sitting at the kitchen table when I told you. You reacted with a deep belly laugh. You pointed to my forearms, dotted with burn marks and blisters, and told me, with a big smile on your face, that your arms used to look exactly the same. I listened as you reminisced about the restaurant days and working until the sun came up. You told me how proud of me you were, and I realized how wrong I was to withhold from you the opportunity to show me how loving, generous, and open you could be. (back)