As a boy, I watched my mother cook. Cut, chop, mix – wash, strain, simmer. Things boiled and bubbled on the stove; and, as she moved about the kitchen, I poked and shuffled the contents with her wooden spoon. The oven extended the experience by filling the house with smells. I didn’t have to be, do or say anything. I felt connected. As a younger boy, I watched my grandmother draw. We would take turns making marks on a page till “it was done.” After a while, the game would devolve into me scribbling – with a grin – trying to defy her ability to make something out of my lines. She transformed my marks – like magic – into drawings that surprised as forms and patterns emerged. I was mesmerized.