I knock on the door. Getting impatient, I open the door to my grandmother’s rundown brown ranch. From the outside, it may seem lifeless. But inside, I know what's going on inside.

As I walk in, I get hit by the sweet smells of rolls baked in the oven. The chicken makes a sizzling snapping sound. From what I am seeing and hearing, I would expect there to be multiple people in the kitchen but it’s just my grandma alone in the kitchen.

“Honey, you are late.” My grandma's soft but assertive voice forces me to walk faster and rush to put my apron on.

“Sorry, Grandma. What are we making for dinner tonight?”

She responds with my favorite meal of all time, the holy grail of foods: “Bourbon Chicken.”

I bread the sliced chicken breasts in flour and toss them into the skillet. My grandma reduces the sauce and makes sure the ingredients are ready and prepared for my family at 6:30.

We brown the chicken, mix the sauce, boil the rice. Finally, the meal is prepared and on the table, my grandma and I wipe the sweat off our brows with a freshly damp towel, look at each other. We take a deep breath.

“You did good, Brady. The hard part is over and now we can eat!”

She doesn't have to repeat that again

I sit down with the family, Dad on my left and my brother on the right. We dive in and enjoy the home cooked meal.