In To Me See

There’s a quiet intimacy in cooking with someone who has the same mouth as you.

Not just taste, but instinct. Someone who knows that fresh matters, that salt should be felt not just tasted, that lime cuts just right.

We don’t follow recipes. We build.

Slaw from scratch—

Purple cabbage shredded by hand. Red onion sliced paper-thin. Jalapeño chopped with care. Garlic crushed, not minced. Cilantro tossed in just before the lime juice hits like a kiss. Salt added slowly, until everything hums.

We roast okra until it sings.

Pan-sear the salmon to get that crisp skin, then finish it in the oven for silk.

Corn tortillas warmed, not toasted, not crisped just softened enough to wrap it all in place. Not just to hold the food, but to hold a moment.

And the salsa? It wasn’t poured.

It was made. Built from scratch. Stirred into the moment, not just the meal.

This isn’t just food.

It’s language.

It’s shared reverence.

It’s care made edible,

This is in to me see…

Brian,

Professional overthinker, semi-professional pizza enthusiast.