Fress

I know, everyone says that about their mothers, but come on, it’s true. Ask any of the guests she hosted. Everything she served was special; every dish was perfectly textured and perfectly flavored. I woke up to the whir of the mixer and the smell of onions sautéing. I came home from school to fresh cakes on the counter and the heartiest soup on the stove.

The kitchen was my mother’s happy place, and from that place, she made others happy. Food was her love language. And naturally, it has always been my mother tongue.

And yet, food to me has always been just that: food.

These days, it doesn’t feel like that anymore. Food has turned into something bigger. Greater. Saintlier.