Jennifer’s POV
The celebration in the living room had a new, electric energy. Lucy was coming. The air itself seemed to buzz with the promise of her arrival. And then, my mother, her face still glistening with happy tears, clapped her hands together.
“That’s it. We’re celebrating,” she announced, her voice thick with emotion but firm with purpose. “I’m making my peach cobbler.”
I exclaimed, “Peach cobbler.” It wasn't the delicate truffle-infused risotto or the seared foie gras I’d grown accustomed to. This was soul food. The food of survival, of celebration, of long, hot Sundays. It wasn't just a dessert.It was my childhood. It was summer vacation that felt endless, the sticky-sweet juice of Georgia peaches running down our chins. It was the reward for good report cards, the comfort on
