Food Is Love

My Papa does all the family cooking. I’m so lucky to have learned so much from him—it’s truly one of my fondest memories of growing up. Helping him cook after a long day, impatiently asking, “How much longer?” (Sorry, Papa.)

We spent summer nights grilling salmon on cedar planks, smash burgers paired with a special sauce, and summer squash on the deck, the August sun casting an orange glow through the tree branches in my backyard. We watched as bats flew frantically through the woods. In the winter, it was crispy chicken cutlets with vodka pasta or a taco bar, every topping imaginable arranged in little bowls on the counter.

Before school, my Papa would make me a spinach and cheese omelet—somehow finding time between getting ready for work, throwing together a lunch, and walking our dog, Koko. I loved those omelets so much that I ate one every single morning… until the day I couldn’t stand them anymore. And before the omelet phase? It was all about eggs in a basket. These little breakfasts made up for the fact that I often had to listen to news while my Papa drove me to school.

He also has a way of looking at an empty pantry and somehow making something delicious out of almost nothing. One of my all-time favorites is a dish we call “Black Beans and Rice,” topped with smoked sausage, tomatoes, a generous pinch of cilantro, sour cream, and hot sauce. Now that I no longer live at home, it’s the dinner I crave most.

For the most part, my whole family would gather around the table once dinner was ready—something so simple, yet so important. It was a chance to wind down from the day and just talk.

I believe my father inherited his cooking skills from his mother, my Grandma J. Her love language was bringing the entire Jarzemsky family together—seven children, their children, and their children—and cooking for them. We chatted over cheese and crackers, followed by a lovely dinner, and finished with ice cream and coffee. After too much food, we’d lounge on her large wooden deck, surrounded by a towering birch tree and an expansive garden. Yes, she really did it all. 

New babies were passed around and adored for their chubby cheeks and tiny toes, while my sisters and I ran through the yard, tossing a frisbee back and forth. By nightfall, we’d all gather around my grandma in the living room, my sisters and me begging her to tell us about her old boyfriends and the wild stories from her teenage years.

Food is the thread that weaves families together. I have my grandmother to thank—not just for creating the most beautiful family, but for teaching us the joy of welcoming others to the table. A shared meal becomes a shared story, sparking conversations and connections that last a lifetime.

Cheers to Grandma J—miss you dearly.