Chase
My mother believed every family problem could be solved with food.
A bad game required roast chicken.
An injury required homemade soup.
A breakup required enough dessert to feed the entire team.
And if one of her children had not visited recently enough, she prepared everything at once and called it a casual family dinner.
The smell of grilled meat and baked bread reached me before I opened the front door of my parents’ house.
I stepped inside and immediately heard my father laughing from the back garden.
“Chase?” Mom called from the kitchen.
“It’s me.”
“You’re late.”
I checked my watch. “By four minutes.”
“Late is late.”
I smiled as I entered the kitchen.
My mother, Evelyn Ryder, stood at the counter arranging roasted vegetables on a serving dish. At fifty-two, she sti
