Slow Cooking Life

Happy New Year, my loves.

"We all owe death a life." — Salman Rushdie, Midnight's Children

My mama told me to slow down my whole life. Washing dishes too fast and missing a spot. Forgetting a homework assignment. Saying the first thing that came to mind. I thought it horrible advice! I needed to get to the grand destination quick, fast, and in a hurry, clutching a whispered fear that if I slowed down, I'd miss what life had to offer.

I paid tuition for that lesson.

While the collective is planning for 2026's Big One—the year of the horse, galloping into the sweet promises of tomorrow—I'm trotting slow.

I want 2026 to be the year I take the scenic route and notice the trees and the various shades of green. Where I stop at the signs and take selfies at the main attractions along the way. Drive too fast, and you get into an accident. Move too quickly, and you marry a bum. Rush and you ruin the mac and cheese.

I noticed it in the kitchen.

For a while there, my food was not hitting the spot. Too much salt. A little dry. Not enough patience. I would tell myself next time I'll crisp the edges more or to chill on the chili flakes, but slowing down lets next time be this time.

Carmen and I were on FaceTime while I cooked when she clocked it: I was rushing the process. She gave me a new recipe:

First.

Set the mood. Music. Lighting. Open a window and let the good air in.

Second.

Gather all your ingredients before you start.

Third.

Savor it. Taste the seasonings one by one. Talk to the food. Pray over it. Build a relationship with the dish so it's easier to make it your own or remix it.

Yesterday morning, I made black-eyed peas. I started soaking the beans two days ago.

I took my time and set the mood. Put on my comfy Uggs, pulled my locs into a bun, cleaned the counters. Gathered my ingredients. Told Alexa to play Luther Vandross Radio on Spotify. Browned the meat.

As I started chopping vegetables, I felt that familiar twinge of panic. You are taking too long. The sausage will burn.

I paused. Breathed the anxiety away.

When the heat lingered, I added a pinch of sugar. My mama and my son like their food mild. I used kale instead of collards. Added tomato, jalapeño, and yellow, red, and green peppers alongside the onions—just for color.

I cooked it low and slow for three hours. I thought about our family-style dinners in Japan and how Tiana always added coconut milk to her rice. I threw some in mine for a little razzle dazzle.

I made cornbread, too; browned the butter and added vanilla bean and maple butter so it was sweet like Jiffy.

"Never Too Much" came on. I danced while the veggies simmered. I opened the window, let the light in. Langston ate two bowls.

Time has a way of turning you into your mother.

Cause now I tell him the same thing my mama told me: Slow down, son. Breathe. Get off that game and spend some time with yourself.

I want us to have something good to say to death at the end of this thing called life. I want to have been alive for my own.

Last year, I spent too many days worrying what other people thought. This year, I'm making different choices. I bought a big-ass calendar to track my writing and plan small adventures. I redid my budget to steward my money better. I set a goal to buy a house with a big yard for my bees and put it all on the calendar.

2026 feels like a beautiful retreat inward. A year of courting myself and being present.

I've revived my blog, built a new website to hold it all. Every Thursday, I'll share notes from the road as I find my lane.

I invite you along.

To slow cooking life. Cheers. 🥂

See you next week.