Every Sunday morning, the scent of fresh basil and warm earth would drift through Grandma June’s kitchen window. Her garden—always overflowing with zucchini, carrots, herbs, and berries—was her sanctuary. She believed that what you grew with your own hands held a kind of magic, and every loaf, muffin, or pie that came from her oven tasted like love.

When I was little, I’d watch her knead dough with care, her fingers dusted in flour and her apron smudged with strawberry jam. We’d spend hours harvesting and baking, turning simple, organic ingredients into masterpieces that delighted neighbors and family alike. She never used a recipe book—just instinct, memory, and a generous helping of joy.