In the small farming town of Nipawin, Saskatchewan, where I was raised, it’s not uncommon for the matriarchs of our little slice of prairie heaven to prepare meals for neighbors. When my father passed away several years ago, I walked into my mother’s kitchen to find her fridge bursting with enough food to feed the entire block. In that spirit, when my co-worker had a baby, I prepared lasagna, salad, bread and chocolate cake. She was so touched by the gesture, she cried. If memory serves, I did, too.
A few months later when my childhood friend had her daughter, I repeated the meal for her family. Despite being invited in, I never stayed longer than to drop off the plates and share a brief, heartfelt hug with my friends.…
