the cook

“Healing begins where the wound was made.”

~ Alice Walker

A Love Language

I am shaped by a journey that was predefined, protected, and marked by trauma, resilience, hope, and a whole lot of trial‑and‑error… especially in the kitchen. I didn’t grow up knowing how to cook and being a picky eater didn’t help. Like most things in my life, I learned by watching, copying recipes, and studying how‑to videos. And while I am no culinary guru, I found a piece of happiness and contentment in preparing meals - something that did not come naturally to me, not at first.

A huge part of this journey has been finding out what makes me happy - and then pursuing it. Learning how to prepare dishes was a part of that. I didn't need to be the best at it; I just needed to see what would happen if I tried something that was just for me, that was my own interest. Somewhere along the way, cooking became more than avoiding a talking stomach. There was a subtle shift — a moment when I realized I wasn’t the only one who mattered, even though I had been raised to look after those who had less. Carrying that responsibility made it impossible to ignore that there were people far worse off than me in ways I understood deeply. The road to self-discovery led me to learn that meals are a part of my love language.

Food insecurity is a part of my story, and preparing meals has become a part of my healing journey. The two intertwine in ways I can’t fully explain. Delving into culinary art is one of the ways I began to reclaim what was once out of my control. It’s the language I use to tell the people I cherish and love that they are important to me, and it’s where I have found a facet of emotional healing in the company of those I trust and those I feel guided to nourish.

try and try it again

There is something about trying again after a failed attempt at anything. It's always the fear of failing at it again on the next try that tends to be the first and predominant thought that arises for me. Now I know as a human, negative feelings are easily the default setting, not just for me, but for most people. That was a disposition that I had to reorder over time - and a very difficult one. Learning to cook shouldn't even be that deep, but for an already sensitive soul everything was that deep at the point in life where I was dependent on me - that was early, and cooking was something I was going to conquer. More so, because I was resolved to shut the mouths of those who were malicious about gossiping about my underdeveloped skills. Jokes I could take - and I could hardly regulate after those. Malice, never. For as much as I have experienced, the one thing I was never going to let anyone do was tell me directly or indirectly, what I couldn't do. My motto? "I'm gon show your ass better than I can tell you!" That feistiness, I inherited from my mother.

I'll never forget bringing the cornbread and a green bean casserole to Thanksgiving dinner one year. I think I was roasted out the door into oblivion. At the time, I was thoroughly embarrassed seeing the mushy center of the cornbread I was so proud to have made. It was a pretty, buttery, golden color masterpiece that I was excited about. The green bean casserole was soupy with what was supposed to be pieces of crispy fried onions. Instead, they were mushy. The gravy and whatever else I added in the mix was not combined, and I'm almost certain I was missing several ingredients. I had made it from what I thought made sense. I don't know what I was thinking. The dish looked like neat vomit. I laugh heartily now thinking about how I ruined a part of dinner with that cornbread that should have been the easiest dish to make. I laugh now.... thinking about how far I've come from where I started and the several times, I had to consistently make it and other dishes correctly before I was trusted again to cook on Thanksgiving. I should mention that I became one of the "aunties" that help to prepare Thanksgiving dinner each year when our family does dinner together.

While I can laugh looking back now at how awful of a cook I was, I think about the full journey of having to learn to cook for myself and having no clue what the hell I was doing. I had watched a childhood friend fry chicken like she was the colonel herself. I watched her and every step she took, and I tried to mimic it. Yeh...ok. I almost burned down the house once ...or twice. I had served a guest undercooked chicken - it was bleeding, but I kept trying. I had to learn and finally, I did. I tried it over and over until I got it. I watched shows, I learned to turn the stove eyes and the fire down. I used the timer, and I had patience. Most importantly, I didn't stop trying.

I can name countless dishes that I couldn't prepare starting out. And let me be very clear, I am no chef today. Everything that I cook now isn't a hit. As a matter of fact, I cooked a dip recently that pissed me off! It's trial and error, but its trial and error for me - not anyone else. Whether it's disrespecting a chicken, dry mac-n-cheese, tuff steak, a crunchy broccoli and cheese casserole. All of it is a part of what I could and couldn't do in the kitchen - and all of those dishes played a part in teaching me patience, self-assurance, consistency, and self-discovery. I discovered what I could do in the kitchen if I targeted it, put the effort and time in, and gave myself grace - sort of like what I've had to do for my emotions and mind.