Last month, I read a book of essays called In The Kitchen collected by Daunt Publishing, and it set my mind off on a journey. The book features many authors discussing food and life, and I ate it up. Ella Risbridger charmingly relates all the friends, flatmates and partners she fell in love with in her kitchen over late-night tea and toast. Nina Mingya Powles celebrates the memories that live in her kitchen objects. Joel Goelby humorously dissects his family buffet strategy. The collection ends on a manifesto from Julia Turschen about food being a gateway to community – “food is a tool of thoughtfulness. It’s a way in”.

Reading all of this got me thinking about what food has meant in my life. From growing up alongside my cousins around my granny’s dinner table every Sunday to having a giant list of restaurants and recipes to explore.

I’ve always enjoyed cooking, but in those perpetually hazy days of the pandemic, it really became my purpose. I had moved back to my parents’ house for both the space and the company, and in return, they got me as personal chef, experimenting with elaborate meals to stave off my boredom. I love my parents’ big kitchen and never does it work harder than for Christmas dinner, which I love getting to cook with my mum every year. Even when we’re juggling competing allergies, intolerances and dietaries!

As Julia said, food is a tool of thoughtfulness. When my loved ones are ill, I’ll make them a big pot of soup. When folks need cheering up, why not give them a cosy apple crumble? When I haven’t seen my brother and sister-in-law in over a year, we make all their favourite dishes, including my famous low-FODMAP chicken enchiladas. There’s love in knowing just how all of my family members like their tea. Cooking gets to be both one of my greatest joys and my strongest acts of care.

One of the nicest things about making new relationships is getting introduced to someone else’s food love. What they like to make, which dishes are their family’s classics, and how it runs in the family that you’ll always be served too much mash. (I am not complaining, but that mountain of tatties is a little intimidating.). In bringing dessert to my boyfriend’s family Sunday dinner, I share a recipe that has been passed down from my mother and her mother before that, which feels really special. My favourite thing is us cooking together, chatting nonsense and having kitchen discos while we wait for things to be ready for the next step.

In my kitchen now, I am honoured to have some Sunday dinner heirlooms from my grandparents; my granny’s floral tea towels, my beloved childhood soup bowl with the love heart face, and The Gravy Jug (which is massive by the way). Remembering my grandparents in the kitchen feels so right – I also framed pages of their favourites from my granda’s Wild Flowers book. Other special things in my kitchen include a yellow ceramic citrus juicer made by my friend Hazel’s talented hands and a golden pothos gifted to me by my friend Nathalie, which I’ve now propagated into 4 different plants and counting.

In reminiscing about Sunday dinners as a child, I realised how much I missed the casual ritual of reliably seeing my loved ones for a meal. A meal without mad planning or going out somewhere, but one that’s comfy and cosy at home. I want to share the kind of love and comfort that my grandparents gave to me with my people now. While I don’t have a big dining table, I have just bought folding tables I can use and have set up my first monthly Sunday dinner with my group of friends here in Edinburgh. I can’t wait to host them and cook the kind of dishes that are made for many rather than just myself, and tomorrow’s leftovers. Love’s always on the menu. (That may be cheesy, but who doesn’t love cheese??)