Thanks, to our happy chef. I hope

Dear Friend,

Thanks for the meal. Or tak for mad, as they say in the Beloved Country. Why do you do that you do in the way that you do it? Maybe I'm the only one asking. But I'm asking, because I love and care about you. Maybe the reason I ask is that at the end of her days, my mother confessed that she absolutely hated cooking and baking. And I don't want that to be your story. The frenetic energy. The surging stress. The helper drama. The end of the day exhaustion. If you know why, and that's a healthy choice, that's enough for me. I don't need to know. I just really want you to know. Because even more than my belly wants your good food, my heart wants your peace. And that's a lot. Will you give it a look before you make out a schedule and pick up the spoon? Because though the food won't be nearly as good, we could always go to America's last remaining Happy Chef. It was, after all, the place where I took a College homecoming date. But that's another story entirely. You're seen, friend. And you're loved. Just thought you should know.

Thus spake,

me