Today, lingering over lunch, I came across a lovely article in Food and Wine magazine's September issue, "A Vegetarian Feast in Hungary's Bakony Hills" by Sarah Copeland. It was plump with the most delicious words recalled from my childhood. Lekvar. Dumplings. Paprika. Kohlrabi. Parsley. Babushka. Goulash. Sour cream. These words, sharp with their flavor and scent, infused the still room in which I was sitting with the memory of my grandmother so instantly and so painfully I almost found it difficult to breathe. I could picture her, almost hear her in the kitchen, her knife rocking back and forth over the surface of her cutting board, her hands shifting the dough softly across the counter's surface. And my eyes welled up with tears.