Lindberg's was utterly unlike the supermarkets of the era. It smelled weird — a complex funk born of fermentation and herbal supplements. Looking back, it had all the visual appeal of a Soviet-era apartment block, uniformly colorless as it was. But I loved the place. I loved it for the honey-glazed sesame crackers, and for the relaxed trips there discovering new foods at my mother's side. At home in our avocado green kitchen, the results of Mom's experiments were mostly delicious. I happily devoured the oatmeal pancakes she came up with and the creamy yogurt her Salton yogurt maker produced. But I also recall a batch of popovers that were an epic fail; wheat germ, it turns out, can't be shoehorned into just anything. It was Davis who set Mom on her mission to feed us more protein. The year I was in first grade, that meant lots of shakes. She'd play with the proportions of protein powder, raw egg, fruit juice, and bananas until the mass had a pourable consistency. And of course there was that complete-protein mjeddrah, as colorless as the interior of Lindberg's, and just as comforting. Over time, the knowledge that my friends at school didn't eat this way became a point of pride. What set us apart was what made us a family.