A well-placed bowl of brothy coconut mussels on a shite day, a scoop of granita on an August scorcher, that one perfect runny egg yolk broken over a greasy plate of hash fresh off one too many beers.
Food is medicine.
It’s more nuanced than medicine of course, it can make you feel cozy or comforted, it can make you feel welcomed and appreciated. The right dish at the right time for the right person can change the trajectory of a relationship. It can heal or energize or acclimatize. It can cure jet lag, a hangover, it can even apologize.
Because food is a language.
I’ve often cooked when I didn’t really know what to say or what I felt or what I wanted to do. It’s an activity that puts you in motion and draws in people around you.
It’s very human to ask “so what are you making?”.
Cooking can be an outlet, an activity, a lesson, a challenge, it can signal a change in direction. Most of all, cooking is a way to express, that for one tiny moment, with a pan and a couple ingredients, you can show somebody you care, even if it’s just yourself.
