So...my mother was generally not very comfortable in the kitchen,
but what she did know how to cook, she cooked very, very well.
Some time after September 11, 2001, the Catholics and Protestants in Northern Ireland decided to lay down the hatchet, seeing themselves as having a common enemy more fearsome than the one they were used to seeing in each other. They were still living still in an uneasy peace, though, for a while. My brother-in-law signed his household up to participate in a peace-keeping exchange program. Protestant children from Northern Island were sent to spend some time with Catholic families in the USA.
My mom was living with my sister's family at the time. A Catholic grandma, raised to believe Martin Luther and his Protestant ilk were "the spawn of Satan" (she had mellowed before she emigrated to the US, and had mellowed more, for my sake), she officiated at an ambassadorial event, in the kitchen, one morning.
She placed a plate, full of sunshine, on the table in front of the young boy from Northern Ireland.
After he'd taken a few bites, he announced, in a brogue none of her own children had,
"These are the best scrambled eggs I have ever, ever had in my life."
My mom cooked for him a lot before he went home. I smile when I think of those meals.
P.S. The secret is butter, cooking in lots and lots of butter. That's pretty much a sure-fire kitchen secret right there. Mark it down.