Dessert First

So you’re thinking about becoming a food writer. Did you:
A) grow up on a farm, where Mama canned peaches sweet as the day is long, and where all the menfolk came in with stomachs growling for her dinnertime feast, set out on a long, rustic wooden table, of  fried chicken, country ham, collards and pot likker, and biscuits, always biscuits, on the requisite sideboard, with of course several fruit pies in the pie safe;
B) grow up in the Lowcountry, where Mama sent you out every day at lunchtime on your dinghy to cast your net for fresh baby shrimp, or dig for oysters, which she of course cooked in a bucket of creek water;
C) grow up in a home in which Mama was a terrifically terrible cook, producing all sorts of comically inedible suppers;
or D) grow up in a perfectly normal, everyday house in which your mother cooked tasty but fairly ordinary food over which you had perfectly normal suppertime conversations with your family?
If D), despair now.
Clearly, you don’t have the food memories to make a successful career. Will your children grow up similarly deprived?