Scott slouches in a molded plastic chair, industrial orange, and contemplates the substances spread across his sectioned tray: not Mom’s home cooking. He misses her biscuits and gravy, the chocolate-chip angel food cake, the holiday scrapple. Eat. Just a few more bites. Here at the Mission Training Center, nineteen-year-old boys wolf down their pallid, boiled dinner—consecrated by an important guest, a white-haired General Authority down from Salt Lake—like it’s manna from heaven. Elder Leavitt, Scott’s missionary companion, slicks up a piece of soggy lettuce, the cradle of a Jell-O-and-shredded-carrot salad.