9/1/25

When I was very young, my dad discovered that he was gluten-free. Today, that would not be anything to write home about, but in the early 2000s, being completely gluten intolerant meant very strict and grueling dietary restrictions that most grocery stores and restaurants were not prepared to accommodate. On the East Coast, there are only so many places to visit on day trips. Pittsburgh is quite the drive, Philadelphia is a good option, and of course, Baltimore has much to offer. However, no city trip is quite as worth the drive as DC. It's free museums, it's the Cherry Blossom Festival, but for my family, it was the best Ethiopian restaurant we had ever been to. We had family a few minutes outside of Downtown, and just as frequently as we would visit them, we would stop for a dinner of lamb, injera, and mango juice. However, once gluten became an obstacle, Ethiopian food became something we could not hurdle. Thankfully, my father was more or less prepared for such a situation, and it didnt take long before his pankering for lentils and beef became too strong. 

It became a tradition - once every few months, my father would mimic the atmosphere of the restaurant we once knew and loved. He would make chicken, and lamb, lentils, and eggs, homemade injera and a bottle of wine for the table (my sister and I got sparkling cider). The lights would be off, and, luminated exclusively by the light of table candles, we would embark on some of the best gluten-free food a man could make. We challenged ourselves to go as long as we could without drinking water, drooling and slobbering over one another, hoping that if we waited long enough, the spices would surpass. I don't know why we stopped doing that; perhaps a lack of enthusiasm or, more realistically, teen angst disallowed my sister from sitting still for so long. But those dinners rubbed off on me, and in my adult life, I strive to make eating a meal feel as special as those dinners once did. 

Family dinner was frequently all we had. In the mornings, all but one parent typically departed for work long before I did for school. Lunch was had in class or in a cubicle, and once home, we often separated into our own evening hobbies. But dinner was something we always did together. We would sit at the table and exchange stories by playing a little table game called "High Low," in which we would say our highest and lowest points of the day. We'd play Table Topics and get into conversations about life, dreams, and goals. We'd be together. We were many things, a normal family not being one of them, but if nothing else about our lives was stripped straight out of a lifestyle catalog, it was the way we ate dinner. 

I remember the Summer before I moved into my apartment was filled with questions. Questions about what I was going to do next, what I wanted to become, and where I wanted to be. I'd receive questions about my roommates, whether or not I was nervous to live with them, how long I'd known them, and if we were already good friends. But the thing I remember always emphasizing in my answers, beyond the significance of my career, academics, or social life, was the sheer excitement I felt about having my own kitchen. I had been dabbling in cooking for some time - perfecting my breakfast sandwiches and wraps, and making eggs like I was paid to do so, never failing to force or encourage my mother from tasting whatever new recipe I had attempted that day. Now, for the first time, I would have my own space to do it. My own food, my own recipes, my own kitchen, which I alone was responsible for using and maintaining. 

Freshman year of college was the first sign of how significantly I enjoyed cooking for others. It was my first year not being with my family for Sedar, a Jewish holiday in which we eat, tell stories, sing songs, and remember the liberation of Jewish slaves in ancient Egypt. In the dorms, I had only a few tools at my disposal and thus, the meal was a small imitation of the grand meal a Passover Sedar is meant to be. I had sent a text to all of my friends a while earlier, specifying that this was not a party, but a holiday dinner to be had and shared with the people I loved. Out of the dozen friends I invited, three of them arrived on time. For lack of better words, I was distraught. Of all the frat parties, friends of friends houses, and drinking binges I had partaken in against my own wishes, none of my friends could make the time to celebrate a holiday with me, much less mature themselves enough to be there on time. But now, I have my own apartment. I could make the full course meal, have comfortable seating for everyone in attendance, and have an actual, real, authentic Sedar dinner. Over the last three years, Christian's Sedar Dinners became something of an event. Guess lists were sent out, and hours of preparation were completed ahead of time. I made entrees, appetizers, snacks, accompaniments, the full works for those I loved most who were, after the initial disaster, required to be there. 

Having my own kitchen, I learned quickly what it meant to make food for someone. It was more than a simple act of service, though that is a love language in its own right, but rather it is the act of sharing such an objectively intimate experience with another person. To see them and say "I made this for you, try it" is a genuinely beautiful thing that is, in some ways, unique to food alone. Over this last Summer, it struck me how much doing things like that means to me. Regardless of the person, or their response to it, I love waking up early and having breakfast ready, or rushing to get dinner on the table before someone gets home. For Katie's 22nd birthday, closing in on the end of the last few months of Summer, I had effectively run out of money. Though I have never been the kind of person to prioritize cost over intention, I was admittedly stressed, racking my brain for what I could do to make her day special. So, when the day came, I decided to wake up extra early, get my workout in before she even woke up, and spend the rest of the morning in the kitchen. I made banana pancakes, blackberry pancakes, I made scrambled eggs with onions and kale, homemade home fries, and bacon-wrapped dates. I set up a banner and flowers, and sat next to the breakfast shmorgisboard, a pot of coffee, and a hand-made balaclava I had been working on for the weeks prior. It wasn't that I was expecting her to sit there and eat it all, or even eat any of it, but I hoped that, in her return from Yoga, she would walk in the door, see the banner, the coffee, and the food, and know that before I had even seen her that day, she had already been thought of. 

I love to cook, so to me, I don't feel as though it is something that can simply be labeled as an act of service. It is an act inherently made out of love. A message that says, before I even started my day, I thought of what would make yours a little better. It is consideration, intention, it is something that brings me joy simply by doing so. Now that I'm home, I've been able to cook a lot less. I don't have my usual groceries, nor the amount of time I once had to attribute to it. But in a few short months, I know that a nice kitchen will be at the top of my list in deciding what apartment to move into, and I will once again be able to spend my mornings and nights over the oven, with a glass of wine and Dolly Parton by my side, making food for me and my friends who I will undoubtly be inviting over for dinner as frequently as I can.