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Pressing my lips firmly around a forkful to cleanly drag all the icing and every moist crumb, I could be in my own front yard of Alabama beaches—Gulf Shores, Orange Beach, Perdido Key—or along some nearby river or creek.

Every delicious first forkful makes me remember the countless iterations I have both been served, as well as made for myself, over the last forty-plus years of my life.

“Thanks, Uncle Solly,” Jackson said as he shoveled the first forkful into his mouth.

“I love eating,” she says, taking a forkful of her miso salmon.

These tiny worms twist together by the thousands to form tightly packed blobs reminiscent of a forkful of squirming spaghetti.