God makes beauty from ashes

I've spent 36 years of my life wondering who my Father is. My Mom gets very cagey about this and whenever I've asked over the years, walls go up. Mom gets angry and defensive and I end up feeling like I'm hitting my head against a brick wall. Last month, on a good friend's recommendation to try a special US 'Search' website...I found the man on my Birth Certificate. I looked at his picture for a long, long time. I didn't have any of his features. He was a burly, white, American man...a little on the chubby side with blue eyes and a kind smile. He looked to be in his early 60's. So where did I get black skin and afro hair from? Mom has light, creamy coffee-coloured skin and poker-straight, long black hair. We only get one chance at opportunities like this...so I wrote and re-wrote a letter to this man. This man listed as my Father on my birth certificate. I re-drafted what seemed like a hundred times. I held the addressed, stamped envelope close

There is something really special about food. It brings people together. I think my happiest memories with my family or my beloved friends feature food somehow. There is something deeply comforting and heart-warming about getting together to share a meal. Whenever I'd stay over at Gracie's, her loud, shouty, expressive Italian family would make me smile. They would make these incredibly grand hand gestures and shout at each other throughout the whole meal, but through it all and in it all was love. In my own family; whenever I think of my Dad, I think of the times we've laughed together over a 'late night pie'. Whenever I visit Mom, she wants to feed me. It doesn't matter what time of day it is - it could be 2:00am in the morning...Mom will offer food of some kind. "Want some beef?" I can hear her wonderful voice in my head right now with that memory. I've piled on 30 kilos that I really don't need - but no matter how BIG I am, Mom alwa