Nostalgia is rarely a grand, sweeping event. More often, it is a highly specific sensory memory, triggered by the simplest of sounds or the warmth of a familiar room. When I think of my own "playhood," the memory that instantly grounds me isn't a playground or a favorite toy. It is the rhythmic, precise sound of my mother slicing African kale, preparing sadza nemaveggie. As a child, I would sit quietly in the kitchen just to watch her work. She approached the vegetables with
