Feeding For People I Love
I love to cook, though I hesitate to call myself a cook in any formal sense, and certainly not a chef, because what I do in the kitchen feels less like mastery and more like listening…listening to my body, to my cravings, to the season, to the people I am feeding, and letting that guide what appears on the table. I cook what sounds good, what feels right, what my hands know how to make, and sometimes I surprise myself, and other times I am still very much learning, still figuring it out as I go.
Since having my boys, my body has changed in quiet but undeniable ways, asking more insistently for protein, for grounding foods, for nourishment that feels steady and sustaining, which has meant chicken cooked in every way I know how, and more frequently a good steak when I want something hearty and strong. I am learning how to do it right, how to season properly, how to trust heat and timing, how to cook meat until it feels just right and while I am far from polished, I am becoming more confident, more willing to try.
Over the years, I’ve learned a lot about what truly nourishes and what quietly harms, and when I cook for the people I love, I am deeply aware of what I am preparing…every ingredient, where it comes from, how it will feel in their bodies. I pay attention not just to the food itself, but to the process: cutting things properly, moving with intention, staying present so nothing is rushed or forgotten, so everything is ready at the right moment, served warm when it should be warm, fresh when it should be fresh, because care shows up in the smallest details.
I am drawn to cooking with the seasons, letting the year guide the table, for example, a chicken pot pie when fall arrives and the air turns crisp, Julia Child’s beef bourguignon on cold winter days when we need something rich and slow and comforting, meals that feel anchored to time and place rather than trends. I always try to keep seasonal fruit on hand for my boys, something bright and sweet to balance the meal, something they can reach for easily, something that feels like abundance.
Sometimes what I cook is very simple, and sometimes I stretch myself just a little further than I have before, testing my confidence, broadening my ambitions gently, without pressure. And no matter how much thought I put into it, there are days when Clover simply isn’t interested, when eating feels secondary to playing, when familiar foods like pancakes and sausage in the morning or “soupy soup” at dinner are all he wants, when snacking is his preferred rhythm, and I am learning to meet that with patience rather than frustration.
Murphy, on the other hand, eats everything with a kind of wholehearted enthusiasm, his little body eager and willing, and it fills me with a quiet happiness to watch him nourish himself, to know he is getting what he needs to grow strong and steady. Feeding them reminds me that the act itself matters, regardless of how much is eaten or what ends up on the floor, because offering nourishment is an expression of love, and love is not measured by clean plates.
This is how I cook, not expertly, not perfectly, but with care, attention, and an ever-growing confidence, trusting that intention carries weight, and that feeding the people I love is one of the most meaningful ways I know how to show up.