I actually found a picture of my childhood kitchen on a real estate website. It's been redone since its old pink and gold days, but the bones are still there. I look at the counter top and remember the ill-fated flan experiment I did with my mother. I look at the oven and remember the salami en croute I tried to make from dough, egg, water, and Hebrew National salami (yes, it tasted as disgusting as it sounds). And the table area where my best friend Pammy and I ate pickle spears wrapped in Kraft singles (after all, this was the '60s -- the golden age of hors d'oeuvres).Much of my life revolved around that old kitchen. I don't miss it. But I do feel tender towards the girl who spent so much time in that room, struggling to find herself, and comforting herself through food.