Maybe you can still see it clearly. Your mother, with an apron draped over her Sunday best, standing at the stove, tending to the bubbling pots, sneaking a taste from each one. Somewhere in this memory, you hear the doorbell ring, ushering in aunts, uncles, grandparents, and friends from church, all enveloped in the aromas of Sunday dinner--a pot roast in the oven, warm homemade rolls in a basket on the table, a coconut cake cooling on the counter...