seasoned

My kitchen isn’t what I dreamed it would be just yet. The cabinets are painted black—an act of faith, or maybe just stubbornness—and the island I’ve imagined for years is nowhere in sight. But here, on this temporary stage, I can still make something that feels like celebration.

Yesterday it was prosciutto, figs, and burrata layered over a parmesan crisp. A simple, messy thing that I ate it slowly, sitting on the countertop looking out into the backyard.

This kitchen as is, has become a place where I’m learning to rewrite my story with food. For years, my relationship with what I put on my plate was tangled in self-judgment and perfectionism. Cooking felt like a chore or a test.

But now, I’m finding something different. I’m discovering how food can be an invitation to gather, to connect, to heal. It’s about breaking bread as a way to build belonging. Even in this interim space, there’s joy in creating something that brings people close, or even just nourishes me, quietly.

Maybe it’s the imperfection that makes it real. A reminder that beauty—and healing—doesn’t wait for perfect conditions.

For now, this is enough.

-L