Recipes I Never Shared (Second edition)

Prologue: The Last Recipe I Made for Them

I used to cook to be accepted.

Not just to fill empty plates, but to fill empty spaces between us—between me and them.

I learned early on that food was language in their family. It was the way love was measured and bartered.
A dash of salt meant you cared.
An extra helping meant you belonged.

So I seasoned meals to please their tastes, not mine.
I baked pies with the right crust, roasted vegetables until they were soft enough for their liking, and followed recipes handed down with unspoken rules.

I brought dishes to their gatherings, hoping for a nod of approval, a smile, or even a “not bad.”

But the nods never came. The smiles were rare. The “not bad” was the best I ever got.

I cooked for their approval, for their acceptance, for their love.
But I wasn’t tasting my own food anymore.

Recipes I Never Shared

Prologue

I used to cook to be accepted.
I seasoned meals to please their tastes, not mine.
I brought dishes to their gatherings, always hoping for a nod of approval, a half-smile, a “not bad.”

They never said thank you.

And I kept going.
Kept trying.
Kept shrinking.

Until one day, I stood in their kitchen—holding a casserole I made from a recipe his aunt dictated—and realized I couldn’t even taste my own food anymore.

So I left.
No note. No explanations. Just a packed bag and a quiet exit.

And a promise to myself:
I will eat to feel. I will cook to heal.

The Flavor of Leaving

Prologue

Everyone talks about leaving like it’s one decision, one suitcase, one door closing behind you.

But for me, it began with a cup.

A cup of bitter chamomile tea I drank in silence while his mother accused me of “making everything complicated.”
A cup of cold coffee I poured out after his sister made me feel small in my own kitchen.

It wasn’t until I made a smoothie at 2 a.m.—blueberries, oat milk, a banana and silence—that I finally heard it.

My body saying, Enough.

That was the first drink I made for myself—not to serve, not to calm the room, not to fix someone else’s mood. Just to soothe me.

Beneath the Blends

Prologue

I didn’t leave because of one big argument. I left because of a thousand tiny ones—unspoken, invisible, but deeply felt.

It was the way his mother looked at my plate when I served myself seconds.
The way his brother called my career a hobby.
The way I laughed less and chewed more carefully, shrinking each day.

Leaving wasn’t brave—it was necessary.
Staying was what had required courage.

But now, I was free. And hungry for something deeper than comfort.
I was starving for myself.

Blending Myself Whole

Prologue

Raya didn’t notice the moment she lost herself. It wasn’t loud or obvious—it happened slowly, in the quiet moments. In skipped meals. In forced smiles. In dinners with his mother where she chewed carefully and said little. In the way his family treated her like a guest in a life she helped build.

She had spent years trying to blend in. Shrink down. Make peace where there was no soil to plant it.

When she finally left, her body felt hollow. Not just from heartbreak—but from depletion.

She needed food. She needed rest. She needed herself back.

Sip by Sip, I Let Go

Prologue

Camille didn’t leave in the middle of the night. She left at 2:17 p.m. on a Wednesday, right after folding her last pair of jeans and placing them carefully into a box labeled Start Over.

Five years in that house. Three with him. Two with his family slowly taking up all the space she once thought was hers.

It ended not in fire, but in silence. And when she closed the door, she knew: They don’t get to define me anymore.

Not him. Not them.

What came next? She wasn’t sure. But she had a blender, a fridge full of fruit, and a hunger to feel good again—starting with what she chose to put into her own hands.

The Smooth Way Out

Prologue

Jasmine didn’t cry when she packed her last bag. She didn’t scream or throw anything. She just zipped the suitcase, unplugged the phone charger from the wall, and walked out of Malik’s apartment for the last time.

It wasn’t just Malik she was leaving—it was his mother’s judgment, his sister’s loud voice, and the version of herself that stayed too long trying to make a place feel like home when it never was.

A week later, with her life in boxes and her peace finally within reach, Jasmine made a promise to herself: No more waiting for someone to save me. I’ll nourish myself—mind, body, and soul.

Sweet Again: The Thrush, The Breakup, and the Smoothie Jar

Prologue

When Jasmine left her ex’s apartment for the last time, she didn’t just leave behind photos, clothes, and five awkward years. She left behind the version of herself that didn’t listen to her own body. The one who waited for permission to rest. To heal. To put herself first.

A month later, when she caught a respiratory infection and ended up on Amoxicillin, she thought: Of course. One more thing to clean up.

But what came next wasn’t just about a pill or an infection. It was about starting over—from the inside out.

A Little Too Clean: The Amoxicillin Story

Prologue

People think healing is simple: take the pill, feel better, move on. But the body is a complicated place. It keeps secrets, remembers things, reacts in ways we don’t always expect.

When Keisha caught a bad cold that turned into something worse, she just wanted it gone. The doctor handed her a familiar name in a familiar bottle: Amoxicillin.

She thought the worst was over. Until her tongue turned white.

The Balancing Act: A Tale of Amoxicillin and Thrush

Prologue

Amelia never liked getting sick. Not just because of the discomfort, but because of the pills. The labels. The side effects in fine print. Still, when the pain in her throat became unbearable and her fever wouldn’t quit, she gave in and went to the clinic. A quick swab, a gentle nod from the doctor, and she was handed a prescription: Amoxicillin—a word she had seen before, but never thought twice about.

Little did she know, this small white capsule would teach her an unexpected lesson—not just about her body, but about balance, caution, and the strange ways medicine gives and takes.

Creating a Home with Care: Where Comfort, Family, and Memories Live

The smell of fresh flowers from the garden drifted into the house as Olivia carefully placed a new vase on the dining table. It was a small touch, but she felt it made a difference. As she stepped back, she admired the room. The table had been in their family for years, its surface worn with use, but still sturdy and inviting. Chairs, once mismatched but now lovingly restored, surrounded it, offering a comfortable place for meals and conversation.

Creating a Warm Home: The Importance of Care, Comfort, and Togetherness

The kitchen smelled of freshly baked bread as Olivia and Lily sat down at the dining table, taking a break from the day’s tasks. The house had always been a place of comfort, a space where the warmth of the oven and the laughter of family created a sense of belonging. Yet, today felt different. After days of cleaning, organizing, and rearranging, the house felt even more inviting, more like a true home.

A Home Made with Love: Comfort, Family, and the Stories We Live By

The morning light filtered gently through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the room. Olivia stood by the window, taking in the peaceful sight of the garden outside. She glanced around the living room, feeling a quiet sense of satisfaction. It had taken days of rearranging, cleaning, and small repairs, but now the room felt just right.

Building a Life with Care: Furniture, Family, and the Heart of Home

The evening light cast a soft glow through the windows, illuminating the living room where Olivia and her daughter, Lily, had just finished moving the furniture around. The once cluttered space now felt open, airy, and fresh, with everything in its place. There was a new energy to the room, even though the furniture was old and well-loved.

Olivia leaned back in the newly repositioned armchair, taking in the view of the room. The couch was now angled toward the fireplace, the bookshelf neatly organized, and the rug—still worn but cozy—lay in the center of the floor. There was a sense of completion, of harmony, as if each piece of furniture had its rightful spot.

A Home Built with Care: Family, Growth, and the Comfort of Everyday Things

The sound of the kettle whistling in the kitchen broke the quiet stillness of the early morning. Olivia took a deep breath as she looked around the room. The familiar warmth of her home surrounded her—the rich scent of fresh coffee filling the air, the worn armchair by the window where her mother liked to sit, and the polished wooden table that had been in the family for generations.

“Mom, can I help you with breakfast?” Lily, her daughter, called from the other room.

A Life of Care: Family Bonds, Growing Together, and Finding Joy in Simplicity

The warm light of the afternoon sun streamed through the kitchen window, casting long shadows across the countertops. Lily stood by the stove, stirring a pot of vegetable stew, while her daughter, Emma, set the table with quiet precision. There was something grounding about this routine, a rhythm they had created together over the years.

Growing Together: Family, Care, and the Simple Joys of Life

The soft sound of water splashing against the side of the sink filled the kitchen as Sarah carefully washed the dishes, her hands moving rhythmically through the soapy water. Her son, Ethan, was sitting at the kitchen table, his face buried in a book. He was quiet, absorbed in the story, but every now and then, Sarah would catch him glancing up at her, his eyes thoughtful.

The Heart of Home: Family, Care, and Simple Pleasures

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the house, mingling with the scent of warm pancakes. Rachel moved around the kitchen with ease, preparing breakfast as the sun filtered through the window, casting soft golden light over the countertops. Her son, Noah, was sitting at the table, his homework spread out before him. He was focused, though his pencil seemed to pause every few moments as he looked out the window, lost in thought.

The Strength of Togetherness: Nurturing, Care, and Connection

The early morning sun filtered through the kitchen window as Clara mixed flour and water, the rhythmic motion of her hands soothing in its simplicity. Her daughter, Mia, sat at the table nearby, coloring a picture of a sunflower, her crayons scattered across the surface.

“Can I help you today, Mom?” Mia asked, looking up from her drawing with bright, hopeful eyes.

The Gift of Nourishment: Family, Care, and Growing Together

The kitchen was filled with the sound of clinking utensils and soft chatter as Lily and her mother, Maria, prepared dinner. The fresh vegetables, still warm from the garden, were spread out on the counter, ready to be turned into a hearty soup. Lily carefully chopped carrots, their orange color bright against the white cutting board, while Maria worked on the potatoes.

“You know, I never thought I’d enjoy gardening as much as I do now,” Maria said, her voice filled with contentment.