My only baking memory of my mother isn't actually MY memory. It's a memory of a story she used to tell about me before she died. When I was very young, three or four, she was in the kitchen, baking, when the phone rang and she went to answer it. While she was talking on the phone, she heard me saying "It's snowing, it's snowing!" When she came back to the kitchen, she found me....and ten pounds of flour....everywhere. The most adorable mess ever, apparently. She died just a few years later, but I've apparently inherited her talent in the kitchen, even though she wasn't around to teach me. Hooray for cooking genetics!

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