My earliest food memory is of my grandma’s spaghetti. As with many memories, being the earliest has meant it also registers as the best. Eaten at the cottage, always on a Saturday, it was the food I came to equate with a full, content tummy. A taste that evoked family, abundance, and a certain alchemy. Never made fresh, instead, popped frozen from repurposed tubs of margarine that my grandmother had transported from the city. As it reheated on the stove, the smell of long hours spent cooking would begin to…