She’d tell you how to make chicken casserole but "forget" to mention the chicken.  That’s how I described my mother. At her funeral. I said nice things about her too, of course, but this brought the most smiles to the pews. We all knew the woman was stingy with a recipe.  When I’d ask her how to make a favorite dish she’d say, “I’ll make it for you.” I felt bold once and replied, “When you’re dead and gone, don’t you want us to make your recipes and lovingly think about you?” She simply smiled, unfazed and unpersuaded.  A few years later when she had terminal cancer and knew the end was coming sooner than later, I summoned her to my kitchen with all the makings of a roast. Finally, I thought, I have her cornered; she’ll have to come clean. As I seared the beef in my grandmother’s cast-iron skillet, Mama scanned the back of the shameful seasoning packet I’d bought in desperation. Like a purr she said, “I think this is how I do it.” Lies. That day was not the first time I h...