by Maggie Battista
I grew up with a mom who grew up on a farm near the Honduran coast. In her home, everything was homemade or often, farm-made. She drank her milk fresh each morning, pulled warm from the cows out back. The bubbling black beans on the back of the stove were dried nearby. The cheese was
by Maggie Battista
While it seemed unusual to me at the time, I grew up in a fairly typical immigrant home where two families lived in one house, only separated by a staircase. Downstairs in our part of the house, my Honduran mom tried very hard to be a typical American housewife, brushing aside some of her Latin
