My Grandmother's kitchen was always open. Anytime, night or day, you could drop by and have her fix a meal. She was a moral compass and compassionate friend. Many stories and broken hearts were shared over a cup of her delicious coffee.

From the kitchen window you could see Waikiki Beach on the horizon. A small, simple room, everything prepared there was magic. Family would gather near and far just to taste her elegant popovers.

Christmas Day was complete if you could fill up with her herb-rubbed Vinha D'Alhos, eggs, and potatoes. By adding a little extra, she could transform a simple meal into the extraordinary.

My Grandmother had style! She was a big woman. Strong and sturdy, she filled up the room with her presence. She'd scold you if you were wrong, but her hugs were all softness. Heaven came when she engulfed you in her arms, comforting sweetly with her large breasts, warm breath, and big heart.

"Francesca," she'd call me, after my middle name, Frances. Francesca. She alone called me that. In between bites of cream tuna or sashimi and rice, she made me feel like I could do anything. "Write your book," she'd say. "You have a way with words."

Nowadays, my kitchen is always open, too. Often, when I'm fixing someone coffee, I can hear my Grandmother from heaven whispering, "Francesca, add an extra spoon for the pot... And make sure the water is at a fast boil before you pour..."

Yes, Grandma, I will...

Grandma's home is in my heart.