The second time I took Ellie to dinner at my parents’ house, my mom made her special pot roast. Meat cooked out of this world tender. Carrots and potatoes and baby onions flavorful beyond belief. “Mm-mm, this is really, really good,” Ellie told my mother appreciatively.

“Thank you,” my mom said, obviously satisfied and sincerely pleased by the compliment.

My father lifted his coffee cup. “Yeah,” he said, offering a wry toast, “nothing tastes as good as Mother’s pot roast. And it smells good, too. But the best smell in the whole wide world...”

Oh oh. I knew what was coming. I’d heard this story a million times. When I was barely more than a boy...

“When I was barely more than a boy, I had a job in the city. My first real job, and I had to travel over the Brooklyn Bridge to Manhattan every morning at 5:30. The roasting coffee—oh, Lordy! I’ve smelled your new mown hay and your fresh-baked bread, but that coffee...”

I couldn’t help myself. “You’re wrong, Dad.”