In the middle of making a meal, my kitchen looks surprisingly similar to my makerspace in the middle of a project. I know I should follow mise-en-place, but I just don't.

A friend once told me, "Baking is from the head, but cooking is from the heart," right before serving me the best ribeye of my life. That stuck. For me, cooking has no rigid rules nor any recipes; it's about technique, playfulness, and feeling.

I don’t do stuffy, plated dinners. I do big, family-style feasts. I cook an embarrassingly large amount of steak for my friends. I braise meats in red wine, I make homemade Alfredo that ruins the jarred stuff forever, and yes, I make a pesto that people claim is life-changing. It’s fancy food, but the vibe is always relaxed.

Cooking is my love language. It is how I show up for my partner and my friends. I cook for people. I don't need a sous-chef (not that I'd complain about sharing the spotlight) but I do I need someone who enjoys being fed.

If you are having a bad day, the emergency protocol is simple: A massive, hot cast-iron cookie with ice cream scooped on top. It fixes everything.