I can see so many of you quietly hangin’ in the shadows, drinking your coffee behind the scenes. I love that you’re here! But writing was never meant to be a silent, solitary sport. This community is your cozy, zero-judgment creative sanctuary — and we want to hear your voice, even if it’s just a whisper today. Let’s shake off the Monday dust and warm up the room with a quick, ultra-low-stakes game. No long essays or perfect prose required! 🔥 The 10-Second Challenge: In the comments below, give us the answer to just one of these questions: - What is the single most comforting smell in your kitchen right now? ☕🍞 - If you could only eat one meal for the rest of your life, what’s on the plate? 🍕🥗 - Are you team savoury or team sweet? 🧀🍩 Over to you! 👇 Don't scroll past — drop your quick answer below and say a quick hello to a fellow creator. Let’s bring the warmth back to this table together!

My grandmother made this possibly on both sides of my family my mom's and my dad's side you take the white part of the watermelon rind cut the hard green part off leave some of the red watermelon and then pickle it and it has to have clothes in it I'll come back and add more of a recipe for you and wanted to put a placeholder here so I don't forget. This is the one thing that I always have on hand and I give to family at Christmas I am now the watermelon pickle maker in our family and each time the recipe is a little different so I will try to find something in the middle!

Thanks to @Karin Crawford, it's now easier to post in the specific category. The link is at the end of this post. I am opening a brand-new module in our Classroom for a project deeply close to my heart: We are going to create our cookbook, together. Connecting over a shared love of food and storytelling has been the heartbeat of this group since day one. Your voice and kitchen legacy belong in these pages! How to participate: - What to submit: Your favourite family recipes — breakfasts, lunches, dinners, desserts, or secret sauces. Feel free to submit more than one! - The magic ingredient: Please add a description of the dish and/or your memories of it. What smells and stories come flooding back when it’s cooking? - Where to post: Share your recipe and story under the “Community Cookbook” category in our community space. The Final Masterpiece & A Special Prize 🎁 At the end of each month, your submissions and as a thank you, I am adding a little extra seasoning to the pot: the creator of the most captivating entry will win an exclusive, personal Zoom mentorship meeting with me! Let’s dive in! 👇 Head over to the Our Cookbook category and share your first recipe today to enter this month's draw. I cannot wait to read your beautiful memories and chat with our first winner on Zoom! Here's the link: https://www.skool.com/how-to-write-about-food-8335?c=afebb97b4ebf4ad28904f8d93cb4fd7c&s=newest-cm&fl=

Downstairs, the kitchen is already rewriting the day. It is my youngest grandson’s birthday, but the true architecture of the afternoon belongs to his father — a man who approaches the stove not out of necessity, but with the quiet, intense devotion of a highly gifted cook. Today, he is creating a Bouillabaisse. A proper Bouillabaisse does not tolerate impatience. It requires a specific kind of culinary gravity. On the counter, the fish wait — their scales catching the afternoon light like wet slate. Fennel bulbs are sliced into pale, clean ribbons, throwing a sharp, medicinal sweetness into the air before they ever hit the heat. Then comes the alchemy of the broth. - Leeks softening into olive oil without taking colour. - Tomatoes collapsing slowly into a rich, saffron-stained rust. - Garlic crushed just enough to release its oil, but not enough to dominate the room. The saffron is the crucial note. A tiny pinch of dried threads that turns the liquid into a deep, liquid amber. It smells faintly of the sea, of dry grass, and of ancient, sun-baked coastlines. It is an expensive, deliberate sort of warmth. Beside the stove, a pot of copper-coloured stock rises toward a simmer, carrying the intense, concentrated essence of crab shells and fish bones. When it meets the saffron base, the kitchen suddenly perfumes itself with the unmistakable language of the Mediterranean—heavy, complex, and deeply serious. Outside, the birthday balloons sway in the hall, markers of another year flying past. Inside, the fish are slipped into the bubbling broth in strict, silent order. First the firm, stubborn pieces that need time to hold their shape; then the delicate, fragile whites that yield almost instantly to the heat. There is a brief, focused window where everything must align. One minute too long, and the fish punishes you by dissolving into anonymity. Bouillabaisse demands a watchful eye. The bowls arrive at the table steaming, stained a rich, deep orange. Slices of crusty bread sit nearby, ready to be smeared with a fiery, golden rouille that cuts through the richness like a sharp blade.

It’s been over 6 months since I cooked bread. I cooked it straight for 3/4 years then life happened and I stopped. I hope to get back on the horse not because my life has slowed down but because it’s the space I had with God and could laugh and sing and dance. I want that place of peace again. So here we again.