Essay #1 - The dish I never shared. Until now

There was no plan for Christmas.
No tree, no table setting. Just quiet.
Until my sister called.

She asked if she and the kids could come stay—just for a few days. Maybe a few weeks. The reason isn’t what matters here. What matters is the dish we shared.

I opened the fridge, pulled out what I had, and cooked. Guinea fowl, slowly roasted until golden. A sauce—a crème de volaille—made with chicken stock, mushrooms, and cream. Buttery carrots, smooth potato purée, and sourdough croutons cut into quiet little cubes for texture. My sister only asked that there be mashed potatoes. “The kids will like that,” she said. That was the only request.

I cooked it all in about three hours, calmly. No pressure. Just presence. A glass of wine in hand, steam rising from the stove, soft footsteps of a five-year-old in the hallway, the newborn wrapped in a wool blanket.

At first, the kids were unsure. The sauce looked too new, the flavors too unfamiliar. But one bite became two. Their plates were clean before I sat down.

We shared more than the food. We shared quiet. Some small conversation, yes, but mostly just looks. Looks that said everything without needing translation. The kind of silence that speaks of love. The kind that feels like exhaling.

I remember it now as if looking through a window—warm light, low voices, a moment suspended. A moment where food wasn’t the focus, but it held us. Softened us.

It’s summer now. The table is different. The light is brighter. But I wanted to share this dish now—because memory isn’t seasonal. And because I will always make this dish again when I need to remember that love can be simple. A bowl of mashed potatoes. A roasted bird. A moment of relief.

This was the dish I never shared. Until now.