We all have those memories of sitting around the table with our friends and family.
The smell of our favorite meal being prepared and waiting in anticipation.
So many of my childhood memories are tied to food.
I remember coming home from a long day of playing at the neighborhood pool. Right when I walk through the door, I smell my mother’s oven-baked pasta. I grab a bowl and fill it to the top. The steam is hitting my face, and I know it’s too hot to eat—but I eat it anyways.
I burn the roof of my mouth and sit there with my mouth open, breathing heavily trying to cool the pasta. Worth it.
Or when my birthday rolls around, I know that my mom will have my favorite Oreo ice-cream cake ready. My siblings are almost just as excited as me, not because of my birthday but because of the ice-cream cake.
We see her in the morning crushing the Oreos and pouring the ice cream into the glass dish. We ask not once, not twice, but three times when will it be ready.
I was always on the receiving end of good food until I had my own little family to feed. I never realized how much joy cooking brings me, until I wanted to nourish those whom I love the most.
Nourishing my family is one way I show my unwavering comfort and love.
It’s not just food to me—it’s an interweaving of my feelings and intentions. Hoping that I can always provide them with what they need. Hoping that they will be taken care of.
I never understood why my grandmother was always feeding us. In fact, we would all gain weight after a week at Granny’s house because she made all of our favorite meals. And it didn’t make sense at the time, but now it all comes full circle.
It wasn’t just about eating dinner for that day. My grandmother was trying to make sure we would be alright.
Now I get it, and I feel a wave of comfort roll over me. I felt the love, I feel the love, and I want to give this love to my own family and loved ones.
Here’s to sharing my love through making food.