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There’s so much to say about Professor Kenan as a teacher—his humor and wit, his ability to be kind and constructive even when your writing for workshop was as uneven as the brick paths on Carolina’s campus—but the anecdote that stands out most is from my first day of class with him, when he asked each of us our favorite food. “Pizza,” I answered shyly, hoping that having to speak up in class wasn’t going to be a recurring thing. (It was, but he created a community in class that made it bearable.) Professor Kenan looked at me, waiting. “What kind of pizza?” he asked. “What toppings do you get? Where from?” Kindly but firmly, he drew the details out, until I could think of enough words to describe the soft earthiness and tang of a perfect slice of mushroom pie with extra tomato sauce. That’s what his classes were always like: he thought and wrote vividly himself, and he pushed all his students to do the same. More than ten years later, I still think of his lessons often: when I write, when I teach, and whenever I find myself struck by the taste of my favorite food.