Istarted cooking when I was 15. It was not out of passion or even interest. Rather, it was my sister’s survival strategy for getting rid of the women our father hired to watch over us and our home after our mother died. It had been a four-year, revolutionary experience.

We were tired of it, and my sister had an exit plan. She determined that since all these women did was prepare dinner — or that’s what it looked like to us — I could take over that task, among others, when I turned 16.

All I needed was a car. I was doubtful that our father would go for it. My sister turned out to be a stellar trial lawyer, and this could probably be counted as her first win.

Our father did the food shopping until I turned 16, got my driver’s license and a Chevy Nova, white on the outside with a red inter

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