I remember serving food and serving our minds.
I remember shucking corn on the deck with no shoes on while the sun was setting and talking about how my sister's boyfriend set a table on fire at the ku ke lau.
I remember waking up every Sunday and smelling the aroma of fresh cut celery and carrots before they were tossed into the bubbling pot of chicken broth.
I remember the scent of overcooked mystery stew as it wafts with the almost-forgotten hint of Jack Daniel and Weed.
I remember the smell of spaghetti wafting through the room, enticing the entire Drop Inn community.
I remember the ravioli mom used to make. The big ravioli drenched in bold red marinara, sprinkled with parmesan like snow.
I remember when we ran out of ravioli. When the ravioli turned into beans, mush, mud. But they ate it anyway, only some complained.
I remember boiling a pot of hot water, making a mug of Tazo Clam Tea, sitting back in one of the two big leather recliners in my living room, and turning on a movie.
I remember the anticipation building as the smell of taco spices crept up the steps and infiltrated my room while I sat at my desk.
I remember chewing Trident spearmint-flavored gum after my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, all packed in a brown paper sack.
I remember dinner requests, although, variety and choice was lacking.
I remember the thick, stewy soup that was served to the Drop-Inn residents. A lot of residents thought it looked unappetizing. I didn't think it looked that bad.