For as long as I can remember, I have always had Sunday dinner with my grandmother. She always cooked with love and — as I found out later in life — folded in what little money she had to keep us fed when my single mother couldn't.

Every Sunday, my grandmother would give me my favourite spoon — the one with ridges like a leaf, the only one of its kind. It was not made for eating dinner. But I wouldn't eat without it.

Eventually, I grew up and decided to travel the world. I found myself far from home in a small village in China. As far away from home as I could imagine being. I ordered a local meal, and was handed a spoon exactly like the one my grandmother gave me.

I cried with joy.