It was not only Jack Sprat and his wife who valued food and what it offered to our lives.
Remember the daughter of Aunty, Aunty who had survived the genocide, Aunty who had survived hunger and thirst, Aunty who had struggled to make it in this country as an immigrant with nothing more than her wits . . .
Aunty was rinsing out a can of Progresso soup to get the last tasty tidbit into the pot, and for that, was loudly criticized, laughed at, ridiculed by her daughter who was born here in the United States with all that the United States of America had to offer.
Remember Medzmama, using bread dough to wipe the bread dough batter from the sides of the kneading bowl, cleaning it so clean that it almost didn't need a wash.
Remember being punished for not finishing what was on your plate. (Your eyes are bigger than your stomach).
We born here in the United States of parents who had jobs and income . . . we don't know what it is like to go hungry.