No, I don't take pictures of my food

On many Sunday afternoons in the winter, my mom made mashed potatoes. Sometimes we would snatch a raw hunk of peeled potato, shake salt on it and munch away in spite of her complaining and unsubstantiated rumbling about it being potentially unhealthy.

I loved how the windows would steam up as the pieces boiled away and how the lid made a continuous rattling sound. It smelled good and felt safe.

Some days she'd make "home fries" and I'll never forget the frying and sizzling sounds as well as the noise of her metal spatula scraping the iron skillet as she turned them. She was pretty good at burning things but it didn't matter because well-done potatoes properly salted and peppered aren't usually so bad.

Funny thing is, I don't really remember the taste as much as the way it felt to have them cooked by someone other than myself.

What is it?

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Collectively there is that unique sound of play - kids on swings, laughing, screaming, splashing in fountains, pools or beaches, giggling, swingsets creaking, talking, teasing, and running.

The particular conversation, language or action isn't what matters much. Rather, there's a continuous comfort in the babble. I'm sure this must be similar all over the world and it reminds me that we are are more alike than we may realize or even choose to admit.

So what changes or divides us -- Is it fear? Or maybe hate that simply precipitates as fear? That's got to be far worse than any acid rain, political posturing gizmo's, or sliding up to one side or another.