Dad and Mom were waiting for me when I dusted the dirt from my feet and returned to the kitchen.
“Who was that, honey?” Dad inquired with an innocent pitch that was far too telling.
“Nobody,” I replied and strolled deeper into the kitchen. My parents kept on my tail.
“Food’s ready!” Tricia called, bumping into Dad as she grabbed the large pan from the oven.
The scent of savory cheese and musty spices wafted through the kitchen. I inhaled deeply, eager to dig my fork into the beautiful concoction in Tricia’s arms.
Belizean food was one of the elements of life in the Caribbean that I dearly missed. Our spices were to die for, our rice and beans moist, and our roasted chicken savory enough to win the heart of the pickiest eaters.
Tricia’s expertise in the kitchen, however, convinced me
