By Michelle Hynes
Dinner at our house was… not delicious. Perhaps this is why I’m so intent on every meal I serve at home being pleasing to the eye and to the palate. If I try something new, and it falls flat — I’m crushed. I might even cry. It’s ridiculous, I know, to invest so much in whether the salt, the sweet, the texture is perfect. And if you know me—you know I didn’t use a recipe. I might have run my eyes across a cookbook, sure… but follow a script? That’s just not me.
I am a planner, though. I know what we’re going to eat next and how many meals I can cook before the next grocery trip. You will never go hungry at my house. Not for food. Not for love. Not for all the deliciousness your heart and your hands and your mouth can hold.
Dinner at our house was not delicious. It didn’t feed the soul. It had rules, and a certain predictability. Sometimes there was tension, or tears. Dinner at my house is different. I’m rewriting that old story every day, for myself and for you.
Dinner at my house is delicious. It is welcome. I invite you to be nourished, to feast at my table, to taste the bounty of this land and of this life.