When I was in 6th grade, my grandmother, lured by the tropical climate and a gaggle of widowed friends, moved to Florida. For a number of summers, I joined Mama Min in her high-rise Hollywood apartment, traveling via Eastern Airlines to the land of palm trees and coconut patties. Her kitchen was compact, with just enough room for a slim café table and two chairs. We spent many afternoons sitting out on the shaded balcony, avoiding the blazing sun. The sound of the ocean in the distance was punctuated by the click-click of my grandmother’s knitting needles. It was during these warm weather holidays that I learned the joy of casual dinners and the beauty of the blintz.