When my father died, suddenly, in Atlanta, Georgia, four days after a hemorrhagic stroke and twenty years before his family’s history would have suggested, I told my mother’s friends I was most worried that my mother would stop eating. A fudge cake (Photo credit: Wikipedia) They swung into action. Mom told me later that, though she had lived in the South for more than fifty years, and generously participated in the ritual of bringing food to the home of the bereaved, she had never understood the tradition. Now, she did. She was unable to lift a finger to feed the dozens of family who came for... (Read More ...)