You Are Looking For

There are some smells that just stop you in your tracks. Coffee brewing. Bacon in a skillet. And cinnamon drifting through the house when the oven’s on. That last one? That’s the kind that makes people wander into the kitchen pretending they just needed a glass of water. Sourdough cinnamon swirl bread has that effect. It’s a little showy, sure, with those pretty ribbons of cinnamon sugar tucked inside, but it’s also comforting in the best possible way. Toast it, add butter, and suddenly the morning feels softer around the edges. And the nicest part? You don’t have to wrestle …

You know that smell when bread is almost done baking? When the kitchen feels warmer and somehow kinder? Now picture that, but with butter and a soft hint of sweetness floating through the air. That’s sourdough brioche, and honestly, it has a way of making a regular morning feel like you planned something special. I used to think brioche was strictly “bakery food.” Pretty, sure, but fussy. The kind of bread that comes with a pastry case price tag and a side of intimidation. Turns out, it’s not nearly as scary as it sounds. A little patience, yes. A little …

You know those recipes that don’t just fill your belly—they wrap around your heart, too? That’s what Gullah Red Rice is for me. When I was a girl, my cousin Dottie used to bring this dish to every family get-together. Didn’t matter if it was Easter Sunday or just one of those impromptu porch-sitting afternoons where folks stopped by and stayed too long—we could count on that pan of red rice. She’d carry it in with one of those worn-down potholders that looked like it had survived a few grease fires, and Lord, the smell would hit you before she …

Messy, spicy, cheesy, and probably your new favorite thing So here’s what happened: I was digging around the fridge one afternoon, looking for something—anything—that didn’t involve another turkey sandwich. You know that point in the week when all the good leftovers are gone and it’s just random ingredients staring back at you? That was me. And then I spotted the chicken breasts. Some pickled jalapeños. A lonely pack of slider buns I bought “just in case.” It all came together in my head like one of those cooking show moments. Fifteen minutes later, the kitchen smelled amazing, and I was …

A little messy, a lot nostalgic, and completely satisfying You ever eat something and it just takes you back? That’s what this is for me. Spoon burgers. I don’t even remember what we called them growing up — sometimes “sloppy burgers,” sometimes just “that good meat stuff on a bun.” But I do remember that feeling: tray in hand, cafeteria line moving slow, and the smell of that sweet-savory beef filling the air. And when it was your turn? Oh honey, that was a good lunch. Now, I make ’em at home. My way. With real garlic, a little bell …

Comfort food, weeknight ease, and Brussels that’ll actually get eaten. So the first time I made this, it was one of those days. You know the kind—nothing in the fridge looked inspiring, I was tired, and somehow everyone was still expecting dinner. All I had was a bag of Brussels sprouts, some chicken tenders, and a pack of bacon that I’d been “saving for the weekend,” which—let’s be honest—never actually means anything. Anyway, I got a little creative. Tossed the Brussels into that glorious bacon fat (because life’s too short not to), seared the chicken, built a creamy little sauce …

I don’t know what it is about this stew, but it’s the kind of meal that just settles you. Like, deep in your bones. Maybe it’s the smoky pulled pork. Maybe it’s the sweet corn and that tiny kick of heat. Or maybe it’s just the memory of it simmering away on the stove while someone you love is shuffling around the kitchen barefoot, humming to the radio. For me, Brunswick stew has always felt like fall. Like flannel shirts, football in the background, and that golden hour light coming through the windows. My first taste was at a church …

There are certain dishes that just feel like home, aren’t there? For me, it’s deviled eggs. I can still picture my mom standing at the kitchen counter, peeling eggs with the radio humming in the background and her apron dusted in flour from earlier. She’d hand me one egg half—just one—and say, “Taste this filling and tell me if it needs more mustard.” I took that job way too seriously. By the time the platter hit the table, we’d already “taste-tested” a solid third of them. And when the family arrived? Forget it. Those eggs never stood a chance. So …