I am writing this from my kitchen table, my favorite part of my house. From here, I can see my dad’s book on the top left shelf. The book pictured above, which is where he keeps a record of all the dinners he has cooked for guests, with: date, people in attendance and what was served. To me, this is an expression of love. Not only the food itself, but also all the work he puts into his dinners to make sure those around him have the best time possible. 

And food is not about individuality, but about connection. Just like my dad has inherited his love of food from his parents. My grandparents, who have a special meal they cook every time their grandchildren visit; whose cakes are known by anyone that knows them. One of the most heartwarming moments I had recently was meeting someone new, who knew my grandparents, and getting to discuss which of their cakes was their favorite. 

But this expression of love through food is not only present in those who cook, but also those who aim to create a unique environment through it. Between them, my grandfather, who loves to take us to Arab restaurants to share a little piece of his culture with us. By how he sits at the head of the table, takes out pen and paper and writes out our order, making sure everyone’s favorite foods are included. How he notices me praising falafel and passes it down from the other side of the table. 

This is what food means to me: a form of connection with my family, with friends, a cultural expression and something that brings me back to my favorite memories. I bet you have a special memory that is about food: its taste, its smell, its warmth and comfort or the people who you ate it with. Is there something better than a warm plate of soup on a rainy winter day? Or a fresh watermelon in the summer? 

I don’t think there is.