My kitchen smells like Tung oil, which is what they use to stain the thick rims of pool tables. It’s just now starting to feel like “my” kitchen, and I’m slowly getting used to Atlanta being one of my homes. Usually, the intersection of Virginia and Highland Avenues smells like frothy smog soup, loaded with chunks of sizzling burgers and sprinkled with coffee grounds. My street smells eternally delicious. Continue reading