I still remember the first meal I cooked in our little house when my son was a baby and my daughter had only just learned to reach for the cookie jar. As a forty-something mom raised on pot roasts and backyard baseball, my kitchen is where family stories hang like aprons on a peg. Mornings now are chaos in the best way: my son, eight, mixes pancake batter while my daughter, twelve, narrates her latest school play. My husband brews coffee and my mother drops by with a comment about the tile. Those tiny moments shaped how I dress my…