My Grandmother's kitchen was always open. Night or day, you could drop by and she’d have something warm on the stove and wisdom in her smile. She was a moral compass and a compassionate friend. Many stories—and many broken hearts—were shared over a cup of her delicious coffee.

Through the small kitchen window, you could see Waikīkī Beach on the horizon. That simple room had magic. Family gathered from far and near just to taste her legendary popovers.

Christmas Day wasn’t complete without her Vinha D’Alhos, eggs, and potatoes. She had a gift for transforming simple meals into something extraordinary.

My Grandma had style. She was a big woman, strong and sturdy, filling the room with her presence. She’d scold you if you were wrong, but her hugs were all softness. Heaven was being engulfed in her arms—safe, warm, and loved.

I’d pop in, and she would drop everything to mend or hem my clothes on her Singer sewing machine. We played Scrabble. And when she lived with us, she taught me to crochet—her eyes couldn’t see the black thread anymore, so I crocheted while she guided me. We spent hours together, stitching and talking.

“Francesca,” she’d call me, using my middle name with love. Only Grandma called me Francesca. In between bites of cream tuna or sashimi and rice, she made me believe I could do anything. “Write your book,” she’d say. “You have a way with words.”

These days, my kitchen is always open, too. When I brew coffee, I still hear her voice from heaven: “Francesca, add an extra spoon for the pot... And make sure the water’s at a fast boil before you pour…”

Yes, Grandma. I will. 💛