How is it that two people can remember things so differently? If you ask my mother she’ll say she’s only made beef kebabs a couple times in her life. If you ask me, one of my favorite childhood memories is my mother’s kebabs, cooked over the little cast iron hibachi grill my parents had on the back porch. My most vivid memory of them was the time I was recovering from pneumonia, hadn’t eaten anything for 3 weeks, and was allowed for the first time to sip some broth. And sip I did while the rest of the family ate beautiful, smoky, meaty, hearty, beefy kebabs. It. Was. So. Unfair. I can still smell them now. There was nothing I wanted more in the world at that moment than those kebabs. Sigh.

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