I love the swings. “Higher!” I would yell to my dad, whose job it was to keep the swing in motion. At its highest—the moment before it...

I love old recipe books, with the infusion of smells made by the ingredients splashed on the pages, the yellowed edges, trying to read around the vanilla stain to decide if it’s one or two teaspoons, and how words like 'lard' and 'sugar' were used with such abandon.