What the Kitchen Gave Back to Me

There are certain smells that carry you home before your feet ever move.

For me, it’s the scent of fried chicken in a hot cast iron pan.

Or a loaf of something baking—meat, bread, it didn’t matter—if it was my mom’s, it was magic.

In her later years, my mom didn’t just cook—she ministered through food.

From her own humble kitchen to a local pub, she turned ordinary dishes into soulful, unforgettable experiences. Her secret?

She loved people through the plate.

Fried chicken that made neighbors drive across town.

Simple meatloaf made elegant with a sprig of parsley and a side of sweet fruit.

Music always on. Feet always dancing.

Even when the sink was piled with dishes, she found joy in every stir, every sprinkle, every sizzle.

I’d get calls like, “Come help with the cleanup, baby”—and I would, because even in the mess, it felt like home.

Mother and daughter. Closeness.

We were making up for lost time, and somehow, it wasn’t too late.

Not in that kitchen. Not in the laughter. Not in the way she looked at me like I belonged.

She had so much life in her.

Even the day of her heart attack, she’d been working in that pub kitchen. Feeding people. Spreading love.

She never got to come home. The stent failed. Her body gave out.

And just like that—Mother’s Day weekend became something I now hold in my bones.

I miss her more than words.

But somehow, I keep finding her.

In cumin and cast iron. In sauté pans and the hum of a favorite song. In the way I now add little surprises to the meals I make—just like she did.

No, I can’t replicate her recipes.

But I don’t think she’d want that.

What I can do is remember her joy.

Her generosity. Her wide-open heart.

So I cook.

I make messes in the kitchen. I dance. I pour love into soups and sandwiches, fancy or not.

Because food can hold grief and grace in the same bite.

And cooking isn’t just how I keep her close—it’s how I keep becoming more me.

That’s the thing about legacy—it doesn’t always live in heirlooms.

Sometimes, it shows up in butter-slick counters and your daughter’s hands rinsing dishes while you sing out of tune.

She gave me flavor.

She gave me joy.

She gave me the kitchen.

And the kitchen gave me back to myself.