Sitting anxiously at the table of Yaya’s house, I remember bouncing in my seat and kicking my feet, waiting in harrowed anticipation for my grandmother to return from the kitchen. The rooms smelled sweet with vanilla and cinnamon from whatever magic pot or pan she had going and I couldn’t wait for a serving of anything–cookies, puddings, pies– it really didn’t matter to me. Yaya’s cooking was the very best and I had cleaned the plate as well as I could with my clumsy, young motor skills.
After all, I had to eat all my veggies before I could have dessert. How many of us would be surprised to find that grandma used a popular dog training technique to do what she thought was best for us?