The First Bite

This morning, I took the first bite of scrambled eggs by the ocean. Just eggs, nothing elaborate. Paired with a slice of fried plantain, warm and golden, soft on the inside, kissed with just enough crisp. The breeze moved through the open-air café like it knew its place. Quiet. Warm. Holding. And in that moment, I felt something I hadn’t expected.

Love.

Not the kind that makes declarations. Not the kind that comes with flowers or whispered promises. But love in its purest, quietest form. From the hands of someone I’ll never meet. A chef in the back, who maybe didn’t even know what they were giving me. But I tasted it. The care. The softness. The way intention had folded itself into something so simple.

And suddenly, I thought of intimacy.

Of how rare it’s been to feel someone cook for me with that kind of presence. Not out of duty. Not out of habit. But from a place of devotion. To be nourished not just with food, but with attention. With the rhythm of hands that stirred and tasted and adjusted for comfort, for color, for joy.

It wasn’t just scrambled eggs. It was a quiet offering. A direct transmission. There was no distance between the chef’s intention and my body receiving it. And my brain lit up like it understood something my heart had been aching to name. Because I don’t just eat. I taste. I savor. I let flavors move through me like memories. I use my eyes. My nose. My tongue. I receive food the way I wish I were loved. Completely.

And then I thought about why I cook. Who I cook for. What I’m trying to say when I stand in a kitchen and put flavors together with care. Sometimes the love is clear. Sometimes it’s tired. But most days, cooking is how I reach people. It’s my surrender. My quiet offering. A language I speak when I don’t have the right words.

Maybe that’s what love is.

Not the grand, showy thing we’ve been taught to expect.

But a plate of warm eggs. A bite of fried plantain. A flavor that lingers long after it’s gone. A softness that says, you were thought of.