This story is dedicated to my dad, Harold Robinson, who graduated to heaven on February 11, 2005. Dad loved to feed people. NO one ever visited our home and left without eating something.

We used to go over to my parents' home every Sunday after church for dinner when my boys were little. Along with his roast beef meal, Dad would cook fried okra because he knew we all loved it, but every week he would burn it. One day I finally asked him about it, and he told me he thought he was supposed to cook it until the okra turned brown. We all got a good laugh out of that for a long time. I miss you, Dad, but I imagine you're playing your trumpet in heaven and cooking up mischief there.

Also to my Aunt Mildred, who always served me her delicious "pink stuff" whenever I visited her.