When I was a working mother with a husband and young son, cooking was mostly a chore. These days, I am unattached, my son is a grown man, and cooking is a great joy. What a difference twenty years makes! My perspective on food and being “fed” is markedly different.

Tonight, I made a simple meal – pasta with red sauce and meatballs. The sauce was constructed from a can of plain tomato paste, not an hours-long, complicated, homemade labor. The mostaccioli is soft, not al dente. The meatballs have no binder or breadcrumbs, just plain beefy goodness. And for all that it was still a perfect meal. While I prepared it, my son and I listened to jazz and R&B, danced, sang, laughed, talked about the future. Everything about it was connection and care and communion.

I am no longer a stressed, rushed and unfulfilled working wife and mother dreading the question of what to cook after a long, frustrating day. I’m an artist, taking my time, choosing at my own pace, creating love in digestible form, fortifying myself and those I care about. Feeding my soul. And that, my friends, is where it’s at.