4/6/2026 — Monday
"Sit down. I'm taking over your kitchen."
About a month ago, a client came through with his parents.
His dad… old school.
Louisiana roots. Quiet strength, presence, humor.
At one point he looks at me and says,
"I want to cook you my gumbo."
I laughed.
"No. You're paying me for a meditation, you are in my home. I cook for you."
He didn't flinch.
"No. I am paying you. And one of the things I want… is this."
So we went to the store together.
He tried to pay.
I overrode him.
I buy. You cook.
We both knew exactly what we were doing.
Later that night… he stood in my kitchen and brought that place to life.
Slow. Intentional. No rush.
He'd obviously done it a thousand times.
No recipe. All in his head.
Explaining as he went, teaching… constantly teaching…
how the core of the whole thing was the roux —
and the attention to detail as he fenced with the hot oil and flour with a wooden spoon.
We ate that gumbo…
…and then we ate it again the next day.
…and the next.
A whole week of it.
Every bowl felt like something more than food.
Then this weekend…
I've been sick. Off all week.
Didn't plan a thing for dinner, though we had plans to hang with Peter and Tracy all day Saturday.
My friend Peter shows up Saturday morning, arms full of ingredients.
"Don't worry. I got it."
That night — lamb ragù.
Fresh noodles. Slow cooked. Dialed in.
I take a bite and I just… stop.
"You've gotta savor this."
Because I could.
Because for the first time all week, I could actually taste again.
Jennie's laughing.
Peter's got that look.
You know the one.
And I just…
savored it.
Two men walked into my kitchen this month.
Both arrived smiling. Arms full. Certain.
Twice in one month I get to practice radical reception.
Who gets to live like this?