So, I turned 32, and I had a little mental breakdown. Not a full mental breakdown, but yeah, a little mental breakdown.

I was talking to my best friend and some of the nannies of the kids I teach. Somehow, we ended up talking about age and where we thought we would be at this point in our lives.

And I was like, yeah, I feel kind of behind. I’m not gonna lie, I feel kind of behind in life. And the funny thing is, they were telling me they felt behind in life, as well.

So I guess we all feel fucking behind. I guess.

And I know, I know. I’m not behind. I’m on the right track. I know all the stupid quotes people are going to tell me. Not stupid, you know what I mean. The stories. Oh my God, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be; everyone’s journey is different, whatever bullshit.

I know.

But can I also feel a little behind?

Because I think part of it is the way America is heading. I remember when I was in high school, we were always writing and talking about, “Oh my God, where are you going to be in the next 10 to 15 years? What are you going to be when you grow up?”

There’s this whole life you’re imagining for yourself, right?

And I remember, a little bit after the pandemic, I was looking into buying an apartment. There was this apartment for around $120,000. I talked to a realtor, and they were like, “Oh, you could do it. You just need to save up this amount.”

And I was like, okay, this is something I could actually do.

And then, out of nowhere, that apartment turned into $500,000.

Girl, I repeat, $500,000.

Your girl was shooketh!

And I’m like, how?

Jobs are not paying you enough. Or no, let me correct that. The cost of living has gotten so high. And then there are so many layoffs. You can’t keep a steady job. It’s hard to find jobs that make enough money where you can actually start building that life and that security.

And I feel like if I go back to corporate, I’m going to be in this constant state of, “Oh, am I gonna get laid off? Am I gonna get laid off again?”

And how do you build a life around that?

I’m like, do I want kids? Can I afford kids? Can I afford a vacation? Can I afford to fucking live?

Like, can I afford to breathe?

But I think the economy is only one part of why I feel behind. There’s also this weird thing that happens when you start looking around at everyone else’s life.

I’m in this interesting era of my friend group where a lot of my friends are in their 40s or just turned 40. Then I have friends who are younger than me, and I’m somehow in the middle.

And everyone’s having kids, everyone’s getting married, everyone’s getting engaged.

And I’m like, should I be doing that?

But I’m not ready for that.

And somehow I still feel like I should be doing something. Then you have family members who are like, “Oh, where’s your husband? Where are your children? Where is this? Where is that?”

And I’m like, girl.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized something. When I was in my twenties, I wasn’t even envisioning a husband and children.

I was envisioning my apartment.

My goddamn apartment.

Like, I really wanted my big-girl apartment that I bought and decorated exactly how I wanted. I wanted all white walls, and then all this colorful art that I bought from local artists. Not expensive art, just art that I find beautiful.

And I had this couch that I’ve been seeing on Instagram forever.

I had my bedroom that I decorated. I had this dream of breaking down a wall and building out my bathroom and my closet and my bedroom.

Like, I had this whole thing planned out.

And I wanted the opportunity to travel a lot more and go out for dinner with my friends every Friday night. Because I remember before the pandemic, I was going out with my friends almost every Friday night. We’d go out, drink, have fun, whatever.

I thought at 32 I would have mastered the art of work-life balance. I thought I would have continued growing in my corporate career, working Monday to Friday, making good money, buying my apartment, and then partying with my friends.

That was literally the life I was envisioning.

Not a husband, not children. Just my apartment and me doing my own thing.

And honestly, I still want that apartment. But somewhere along the way, the dream changed a little.

Because I think in your twenties, you start discovering things about yourself. You find that passion project, and you’re like, “Oh my gosh, I never knew that I was so good at this, and I love this.”

And for me, it was teaching kids how to cook.

I remember in my twenties, it was just a thought. Like, “Oh, I should teach kids.” It was an idea, something I thought I would enjoy doing.

And now Cook Street Kids is something that’s actually working.

And I want it to grow. I want Cook Street Kids to become something bigger than I’ve ever imagined. Bigger than my wildest dreams.

When I think about the next ten years of my life, I know exactly what I want to spend those years doing, developing, growing, and building.

It’s Cook Street Kids.

The cookbook idea is still on the line. I don’t know if I want to become a content creator. Maybe I do need to become a content creator to sell cookbooks. I don’t know.

But Cook Street Kids? That’s the big thing. That’s what I want.

And I think that’s one thing I really love about being 32. Even though I don’t have everything I thought I would have by now, I know who I am, and I know what I want to spend my time building.

I remember Tracee Ellis Ross saying something about how she’s happy that she’s older now because she gets to stand in who she is. I forgot exactly what she said, but it was something about knowing who she is and being comfortable with that.

And I get it. I really get it.

Because I think at 30, you’re still kind of in that twenties phase. But at 32, I feel like you’re there. You’re seeing the world exactly for what it is, and you’re like, this is who I am.

I can see people’s perspectives. I can grow. I can continue growing. But the core me? I’m not going to change.

I know my likes and dislikes. I know what makes me excited. I’ve discovered a big portion of who I am, and that doesn’t mean I’m not still discovering more about myself, because I am.

But I know who I am, and I’m comfortable with who I am.

And I feel like even if the world falls apart, or the buildings are burning around me, I can still walk in my light, walk in my truth, walk in my fearless body, I guess you would say.

I can stand on my own and be like, this is who I am, this is what I want, and this is where I’m going.

And you know, if you had asked me at 22 where I wanted to be, I had a whole different version of what I wanted to do with my life.

And at 32, I know.

I know I keep saying this. I know exactly what I want.

Not everything. I don’t know everything.

But I know me.

And maybe that’s why, when I think about what I would tell someone younger than me, I keep coming back to learning who you are and being comfortable with that person.

Keep walking your journey. Keep picking those flowers, keep watching those bees, keep living in the moment. Keep making friends, keep learning about yourself, and keep loving you.

One of the most important things I would say as a 32-year-old woman, a 32-year-old BLACK woman, okay? JK.

Is that you need to be comfortable with who you are.

You need to fall in love with who you are in different stages, different forms of yourself.

And you know when, like, oh, when to let go. Sometimes we have friendships, jobs, relationships, or something else that we need to say goodbye to.

Know when to say goodbye.

And sometimes those jobs or relationships have to say goodbye to you first.

But then you realize, oh, thank fucking God.

Thank God! Thank God! Thank God!

And yeah, I got the opportunity to do that.

Friendships come, friendships go, but you need to be able to stand on your own.

Periodt.

I feel like I’m a rapper. Bar for bar, baby.

But that’s what I would say.

Learn you. Love you. Support you. See you.

And also, another thing I would say as a 32-year-old woman is to forgive you.

Forgive yourself for the things you didn’t know. Forgive yourself for the mistakes you made. Forgive yourself for the people you loved, or the people you supported when maybe you shouldn’t have.

Forgive yourself.

Remember, you’re just a girl.

You’re still figuring things out. You’re going to make mistakes, you’re going to learn, and you’re going to keep discovering different versions of yourself.

And another thing I must say I’ve learned in my thirties is that whatever you want, go after it.

Reach for it.

If you need to call someone, contact someone, shoot that goddamn shot.

In my younger twenties, I was so scared to shoot those shots. But now I’m like, no, what?

I’ll send that goddamn LinkedIn message. I’ll send that email.

What’s the worst they could say?

No? Fuck no?

And at the end of the day, it is what it is.

No one knows you better than you. And sometimes some people know you a little bit more, because I keep discovering things about myself where I’m like, “Oh, really? I did that?”

And I’m like, “No, I didn’t do that.”

And then you’re like, “Oh shit, I did.”

But yeah.

I think that’s what turning 32 has been for me. Feeling a little behind, but also realizing how much I’ve learned about myself.

I don’t have my big-girl apartment yet. I haven’t mastered work-life balance. I still have things I want to do, places I want to go, and things I want to build.

But I know who I am. And I know what I want to spend the next ten years doing.

So yeah.

❤️❤️Happy 32nd birthday to Kenesha! ♥️♥️

Love xoxo,

Keeeessh

A couple of years ago, I randomly wandered into this community garden in Downtown Brooklyn around Atlantic Avenue because I had some time before going to one of my meal prep clients.

Mind you, I’m standing outside like a weirdo because I don’t know if I’m allowed in there. Then the gardener sees me hovering and is like, “Hi, come in.”

So I go in.

And we’re talking about Brooklyn, how much Brooklyn changed, how expensive everything got, all of that. And then we come across this citrus tree, and he’s basically like, “Yeah… I actually don’t know what this is.”

So now both of us are standing there trying to figure out what this citrus could possibly be.

We thought it might’ve been yuzu.

I remember bringing one home and just leaving it on my countertop because honestly… I had no clue what to do with it. But I remember the smell so clearly. It smelled floral, citrusy, and expensive. Like perfume. The outside was kind of fluffy, too

Anyways, I leave it there too long, it hardens, and I never use it.

Fast forward to now, and somehow I end up developing a recipe for Yuzuco.

Very weird. Very full circle.

And honestly? I should probably make that gardener this cake one day.

I remember telling him I’d bring him something if I ever figured out what to do with yuzu, and now, years later, I randomly ended up making an entire yuzu loaf cake. So maybe I should honor my promise and bring him one.

And let me tell you something. I thought this cake was going to be easy.

I said, “Cute little loaf cake. Cute little yuzu moment. This should take me one day.”

Wrong.

I was fighting for my life.

I wanted the cake to remind me of a memory. Those snacking loaf cakes from corner stores. Soft, moist, light, something you eat standing in your kitchen at midnight for no reason.

But also in my head, I weirdly wanted it to feel almost like a chiffon cake. Not exactly a chiffon cake texture, obviously, but that same softness and lightness.

And I think that’s where I started struggling a little bit because sometimes you can’t perfectly recreate a memory or perfectly recreate the version of something that exists in your head. Especially not in like four days. Or two days. Honestly, I didn’t have that much time.

And I think part of me was being a little unrealistic, trying to force this cake into becoming the exact feeling I had in my head.

At one point, I convinced myself that adding more eggs would make it lighter.

Wrong! Again!

The cake turned rubbery immediately.

Then I got lazy and dumped everything into one bowl, thinking it would somehow work itself out.

Again. Wrong.

It tasted chalky and floury and weird, and I had this moment where I was like… okay. Sometimes you actually have to respect technique.

Which is funny because recipe development and recipe testing are literally part of what I do. But when you’re both the tester and the developer, your brain starts spiraling a little bit.

Especially with baking.

Baking doesn’t care about my feelings. Or how stressed I am.

Baking requires you to lock in. Like, seriously, lock in.

And honestly, up until yesterday, I was still rereading measurements and fixing gram conversions because Terrence was making this cake for one of his Snacking Cake Mondays and called me like, “Girl… this measurement doesn’t equal that.”

And I was like, “Wait… what do you mean? My measuring cups literally measure that.”

Which then sent me spiraling because I realized another thing people don’t really talk about with recipe development is how different everybody’s measuring cups can be. My measuring cups were giving me something completely different from what his scale was giving him.

So now I’m at my mom’s house, remeasuring sugar late at night with a scale because I’m like, “Wait… is he right?”

And unfortunately… he was.

Which honestly made me realize I want to be more conscious about writing recipes using weighted measurements because scales are just more accurate.

The fight of recipe development.

But honestly, the cake finally worked once I stopped trying to force it and just focused on technique.

Whip the eggs properly.

Emulsify the olive oil slowly.

Fold gently.

Bake lower and slower.

Add the syrup while the cake is still hot.

Simple things.

And suddenly the cake became exactly what I wanted.

Soft. Bright. Moist.

Not factory perfect. Just made carefully.

And honestly, I think that’s the thing I learned from this whole process.

Technique will always take you places.

A light, tender olive oil loaf infused with yuzu and finished with a soft white glaze. Bright, citrus-forward, and balanced with the tang of kefir, this is the kind of cake that works just as well as a post-workout treat as it does a perfect snacking cake throughout the week.

This recipe came out of a recent collaboration with Yuzuco and quickly became one of those recipes that taught me more about technique than ingredients. Slowing down, properly whipping the eggs, baking lower and slower, and adding syrup while the cake was still hot completely changed the cake's final texture.

Soft, moist, bright, and exactly what I had imagined in my head from the beginning.

Cake

Ingredients

• 1¼ cups cake flour (125 g)

• 1¼ cups all-purpose flour (190 g)

Total flour weight should equal approximately 315 g

• 2 teaspoons baking powder

• ⅛ teaspoon baking soda

• ½ teaspoon fine sea salt

• ¼ cup yuzu powder

• 1 teaspoon lemon, lime, or yuzu zest (optional)

• 3 large eggs, room temperature

• 250 g granulated sugar (about 1¼ cups)

• ¾ cup olive oil

• ¾ cup kefir, room temperature

• ½ to 1 teaspoon 100% Yuzu Juice

• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract or vanilla paste

Method

1. Preheat the oven to 325°F. Grease and line a 9×5-inch loaf pan with parchment paper.

2. In a large bowl, combine the eggs and sugar. Using a hand mixer or stand mixer, whip until the mixture becomes pale, thick, fluffy, and airy, about 4–6 minutes.

3. With the mixer running, slowly drizzle in the olive oil, allowing it to fully emulsify into the egg mixture until smooth and glossy.

4. Add the vanilla, 100% Yuzu Juice, and zest (if using), mixing briefly just until incorporated.

5. In a separate bowl, sift together the cake flour, all-purpose flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and yuzu powder.

6. Gently fold the dry ingredients into the batter in batches, being careful not to overmix.

7. Fold in the kefir until smooth and evenly combined.

8. Pour the batter into the prepared loaf pan and place the loaf pan on the middle rack. Bake for 45 to 55 minutes, or until the cake is golden, lightly domed, and a tester inserted into the center comes out clean.

Yuzu–Agave Syrup

Ingredients

• ¼ cup agave

• 1–2 Tablespoons Yuzu Juice

Method

1. Whisk together until smooth.

2. As soon as the cake comes out of the oven, brush or pour the syrup evenly over the hot cake, allowing it to fully absorb into the crumb.

3. Let the cake sit for 5–10 minutes, then wrap lightly while still warm to help retain moisture. Allow to cool completely before glazing.

Yuzu Icing

Ingredients

2 cups confectioners’ sugar
1 tablespoon meringue powder
2–3 tablespoons 100% Yuzu Juice or Yuzu Juice
1–2 teaspoons yuzu powder
½ teaspoon vanilla paste (optional)

Method

1. In a bowl, combine the confectioners’ sugar, meringue powder, and yuzu powder.

2. Add the yuzu juice and mix using a hand mixer or stand mixer for 3–4 minutes, until the icing becomes thick, glossy, opaque, and pourable.

3. Add more yuzu juice as needed, 1 teaspoon at a time, until the icing reaches your desired consistency.

4. Let the icing sit for a few minutes, then stir gently before using.

5. Pour over the cooled cake, allowing it to naturally settle and drip down the sides.

   Garnish

• Candied yuzu slices or pieces

• Dried or fresh rose petals

• Crushed pistachios

• A sprig of thyme, lemon thyme, or rosemary

Notes

This cake relies heavily on technique. Fully whipping the eggs and sugar, baking at a lower temperature, and adding syrup while the cake is still hot all contribute to a soft, moist crumb and a lighter final texture.

Depending on how bright and citrus-forward you like your cake, glaze, or syrup, you can adjust between using 100% Yuzu Juice and Yuzu Juice throughout the recipe. The 100% Yuzu Juice gives a sharper citrus flavor, while Yuzu Juice leans softer and more mellow.

This recipe was originally developed in collaboration with Yuzuco.

I made this butter tower last year for Food52.

And I still think about that day. Like… a lot.

It was one of those shoots where everything could’ve gone wrong, but didn’t. Which honestly is rare.

It was spring, and we were all watching the weather like crazy. Like checking every five minutes. Praying it wouldn’t rain. Also praying it wouldn’t be too hot. Because it was a French summer-themed shoot, so it had to feel right.

And somehow… it did.

My friend Monique, who hired me for the shoot, booked this beautiful home in Bed-Stuy. And when I tell you… the backyard?

Insane.

If I ever have a home, I want a backyard like that. It felt lived in. Like a little overgrown, but in a good way. There were garden beds, flowers everywhere, an arch, and I’m pretty sure there were peach trees. There was a grill. And then… there was another garden behind that one. Like it just kept going.

I remember thinking, yeah. I want this.

I want a garden. And then another garden.

Actually, if I ever have a home, I want it to feel exactly like that house.

And if someone wants to buy me a brownstone in Bed-Stuy, Crown Heights, Fort Greene… I’m not saying no.

I want fruit trees. Overgrown vegetables. I want to see butterflies, bees, little things flying around.

I want that soft countryside feeling… but in the middle of New York City.

I want a space that feels lived in. A kitchen that opens up. A table that can hold too many people.

I want to host.

Maybe I’ll invite Nea, Noah, Monique, Stephanie, everyone who worked on that shoot. And we’ll do it again, but differently. Like a French spring lunch… but hosted by a Guyanese woman.

Something familiar, but not the same.

Something that feels like mine.

Anyway.

Back to the shoot.

At one point, it got a little warm.

We were outside, the sun was like… in and out, doing its thing, and the pastries started softening. The macarons lost their shape a little, kind of melting in the heat.

But they were still good.

And honestly? It didn’t even matter.

Everything still felt good.

Everyone was moving. I was helping Noah and Nea, who were the talent that day. And the day before, I was literally running around New York City. Like 14th Street, everywhere. Trying to find the smallest croissants, cannelés, madeleines. Making sure they didn’t get squished. Or melt. Or look crazy before shoot day.

And also stressing. Like, how is this gonna look on set? Is this gonna be cute? Is this gonna be good enough?

Monique trusted me, and I was like… oh my God.

Why was I so stressed? I don’t even know. I think I was just… I don’t know. I’m just a girl.

But then we got there, and it was one of those days where everything just worked.

Like after an anxiety storm.

Where you’re like oh my God this has to be perfect, the client has to be happy… and then somehow it just… lands.

And the client loved it. I know they did.
I mean… look at it. It was beautiful.
Like, who wouldn’t love that?

And the day just felt light.

Honestly, it felt like happiness.

We made a lot that day. Drinks, pastries, all these little things. But for me, the star of the show was the butter tower.

And maybe if you ask someone else, they’d say something different.

But for me? It was that.

I love a butter tower.

It’s like this lazy centerpiece. You just whip butter, add some buttermilk, throw in whatever you want, pile it up… and somehow it looks like you did a lot.

It was actually really beautiful. Better than I imagined.

And I was a little scared at first. I was like… they’re trusting me with a butter tower?

But girl. Under pressure, I create masterpieces.

I even went into the garden and picked these tiny kale flowers and added them on top. Just because I needed something extra.

And it worked.

And I think that was one of the best days I’ve ever had working at Food52.

Everyone had their thing. Everyone was doing something.

Noah was on the fish. Nea was on the cheese boards. I was on the butter, doing my thing, styling.

Stephanie was making sure the table looked right.

Caleb was there too. To be honest, I don’t even remember his exact title. I think it was client manager? Something like that. He was working with the client, making sure everything was good on that end.

And Monique was directing, just moving through everything, seeing her vision come to life.

People were moving, adjusting, fixing things, tasting things.

It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t perfect.

But it worked.

It felt like a real team.

And I don’t think it would’ve been the same without everyone there.

And I remember thinking… I want more days like this.

This is the kind of work I want to keep doing. The kind of day that makes me want to become a culinary producer.

Days with laughter. A little stress that turns into relief. Days where everything just comes together.

I think, in some way, I’m longing for that again.

And maybe one day, when I’m a culinary producer, I’ll have more days like that.

I wish we took a group photo that day.

But I still have this.

And I wanted to share a little piece of it.

And also… if you’re ever having a stressful day, or like a chaotic dinner party, or you’re like oh my God life is a lot right now…

Make a butter tower.

You won’t regret it.

Butter tower me, okay?

Make a butter tower.

Whipped Butter Tower
soft, simple, and meant to be shared

Ingredients
1 pound (4 sticks or 2 cups) unsalted butter, room temperature
2 to 4 tablespoons buttermilk
Flaky salt, to finish
Edible flowers, optional but recommended

Optional add-ins, choose your mood
Honey
Citrus zest (lemon or orange)
Fresh herbs (thyme, chives, or rosemary, very finely chopped)

Instructions

Room temperature butter is key here. It should be soft enough that when pressed, it gives easily, but not melted.

1. Add the butter to a bowl. A hand mixer, stand mixer, or even a whisk will work.

2. Begin whipping the butter on medium speed. Let it move around a bit first, then slowly add in the buttermilk.

3. Keep whipping.

4. The butter should lighten in color and texture. It should feel airy, soft, and almost cloud-like.

5. Don’t overwhip. If it goes too far, it can start to separate or break. If that happens, don’t panic. Let it rest for a moment, then gently mix to bring it back together.

6. Once it’s light and fluffy, stop.

7. Spoon the butter onto a plate and start building your tower. Don’t overthink it. This is not meant to be perfect. Let it pile naturally and keep its movement.

8. Finish with flaky salt.

9. Add flowers if using. Tuck them in gently so it feels like they just landed there.

10. Serve with warm bread, crackers, or anything that pairs well with butter.

Notes

This recipe is written for 1 pound of butter, which makes a generous tower
If hosting or wanting something more dramatic, go bigger. 2 pounds (8 sticks) makes a beautiful centerpiece for a dinner party
Honestly, the more butter, the better the tower
Good butter will taste amazing here, but regular butter works just as well
This is more of a method than a strict recipe; adjust to taste
Best served the same day, but leftovers can be saved and used like regular butter
If any is left over, it can be melted down and used for cookies or anything else that calls for butter.

I didn’t realize what freelancing would actually feel like.

A year ago, I stepped back into freelancing full-time, and I remember being terrified. Not in a dramatic way, just quietly. Like, am I going to have enough work? Am I going to book enough? Did I just make a mistake?
Because when you first start, that’s the fear. No work.

But I also didn’t realize how quickly that fear would flip into something else.
Too much work.
Like saying yes to everything. Back-to-back days. Twenty days straight. Then twenty-six. No real break, just moving from one kitchen to another, one project to the next. I’m finishing something while already thinking about the next thing I said yes to.

“Yes, I’m available.”
“Yes, I can do that.”
“Of course.”

Meanwhile, I know I’m exhausted.

But I still say yes.

Because in the back of my mind, there’s always that question:
What if next month is slow?

That’s the part that messes with me. I can have one month where I’m fully booked, barely breathing, and then the next month is… quiet. And suddenly all those “yeses” start to make sense, even the ones I shouldn’t have said.

And there are moments in the middle of all of it where I stop and think — should I have even booked this? Why did I say yes to this? What was I thinking?

And then I just keep going anyway.

Some days I feel like I’m honestly just fighting for my life. Running from one thing to the next, trying to keep everything moving, trying not to drop anything.

And then there’s the part no one really talks about.

Sending what feels like 52 million follow-up emails about my invoice.

“Just circling back.”
“Checking in on this.”
“Will this be processed today?”

Meanwhile, I’m lowkey panicking, like… am I about to be homeless or what?

And then I have to remind myself — I’m just a girl. At the end of the day, I’m just a girl.

A girl with 52 million follow-up emails to send.

Because I’m responsible for everything. Not just the work, but the admin of my life. Creating invoices, saving receipts, uploading everything, keeping track of what’s been paid and what hasn’t.

And honestly, it’s annoying.

I keep telling myself I need an “admin day.” Sometimes I have it together. Other times, I’m squeezing it in between jobs, or sending an invoice a week late and hoping for the best.

But if I don’t stay on top of it, everything starts to fall apart.

And yet… there’s something really beautiful about it too.

There’s a freedom in knowing that if I don’t want to work with someone, I don’t have to. I can just say, “I’m not available.” And that’s it. No long explanation. No being stuck.

There’s a freedom in walking into different kitchens, different teams, different environments. I don’t get bored. Every week feels different. Every project asks something new of me.

And I think that’s also what’s quietly shaping where I want to go.

Being in all of these spaces, seeing how things run, how ideas come together, how teams function — it makes me realize I don’t just want to execute anymore. I want to build. I want to shape things. I want to step into a more creative, directive role over time.

And freelancing, in a strange way, is training me for that.

And there’s a kind of luxury in being able to take time off. Real time. This summer, I’m taking three weeks off, and honestly, it scares me. But also… I know I can do that. And that’s something I didn’t have before.

I think what I’m still learning is balance.

Not just boundaries, but self-control. Knowing when to say no, even when the money looks good. Trusting that turning something down doesn’t mean everything will disappear.

Learning that there will always be a tomorrow. Another job. Another month. Another stream of income.

That I will figure it out.

Even now, it’s only spring, and I catch myself thinking about fall. What is my schedule going to look like? Who do I need to reach out to? Should I already be lining things up?

Because freelancing doesn’t just happen in the moment. It’s thinking three months ahead. It’s building relationships before you need them. It’s constantly asking, what’s next?

It’s work.

And I’m working for my life, and I’m working for my dreams at the same time.

And one of the biggest lessons this time around — because this isn’t my first time freelancing — is diversification.

I don’t rely on one company anymore. Or one stylist. Or one stream of income. That used to be my mistake. Now, I work with different people, different teams, and different types of work. It’s not just about money. It’s about building something sustainable.

Because freelancing isn’t stable.

But I’m learning how to build my own version of stability inside of it.

And just to be clear — if someone wants to offer me a full-time job with benefits, Kenesha will still be open to that, okay? Clock that tea.

I’m still figuring it out.

Some months I feel on top of everything. Other months, I feel like I’m chasing it.

But I think this year, more than anything, I want to learn how to work without burning myself out. How to build a life inside of freelancing, not just survive it.

Because this career — as chaotic as it is — is also the closest I’ve felt to doing something that actually fits me.

And maybe that’s why I keep choosing it.

One of my favorite things to make in the kitchen is soup.

Maybe because it’s low effort, maybe because it’s comforting, or maybe because it’s literally just… blend everything and keep it pushing.

Either way, I love making soup.

I remember making something like this back in my restaurant days, and then about a year ago, I found myself with so much asparagus and thought, alright… guess we’re doing this again. And it ended up being one of those recipes I kept coming back to.

Also, I’m a little bit of a lazy girl at home. I want big cuts, one pot, minimal thinking. Chop-chop, dump-dump, blend-blend, done.

And this soup gets that.

Especially this week—hot one day, cold the next, I don’t know what’s going on. This sits right in the middle. Light but still cozy, simple but still feels like you did something.

So to the world, I present Kenesha’s version of asparagus soup. It might look like everyone else’s… but this one’s mine.

Creamy Asparagus Soup with Mint

Serves: 4–6

Cookware: Large pot or Dutch oven

Vibe: Low-effort, springy, blended-smooth comfort

Ingredients

• 2 tbsp olive oil

• 1 medium onion, roughly chopped into large pieces

• 3–4 cloves garlic, left whole or lightly smashed

• 2 bunches asparagus, woody ends removed, cut into large chunks

  • Reserve 2 stalks, very thinly sliced, for garnish

• 1–2 potatoes, peeled and cut into large pieces

  • (1 for lighter soup, 2 for thicker)

• 2 sprigs fresh mint

• Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

• 4–5 cups water or vegetable broth (enough to cover vegetables)

• ½ cup heavy cream

• Optional: a handful of kale, roughly chopped (stems removed)

Garnish

• Thinly sliced raw asparagus

• Fresh mint leaves

• Grated Parmesan cheese

• Aleppo pepper

Instructions

1. Prep everything first

   Roughly chop all vegetables—onion, asparagus, potatoes, and optional kale. Keep the garlic whole or lightly smashed. Set aside the sliced asparagus garnish.

2. Sauté

   Heat olive oil in a large pot or Dutch oven over medium heat. Add the onion, garlic, asparagus, potatoes, and optional kale all at once. Season generously with salt and pepper. Cook, stirring occasionally, until vegetables begin to soften and smell fragrant, about 8–10 minutes.

3. Simmer

   Add enough water or vegetable broth to just cover the vegetables. Bring to a simmer and cook until everything is very tender, about 15–20 minutes.

4. Blend

   Remove from heat. Add the mint sprigs, then blend directly in the pot using an immersion blender until completely smooth.

5. Finish

   Stir in heavy cream. Taste and adjust seasoning with additional salt and pepper as needed. Gently reheat if necessary—do not boil.

6. Serve

   Ladle into bowls and garnish with sliced raw asparagus, mint leaves, Parmesan, and a sprinkle of Aleppo pepper.

Notes & Variations

• Vegan option: Swap heavy cream for coconut cream or full-fat coconut milk, and use vegan Parmesan or nutritional yeast.

• Why big cuts work: Everything gets blended, so larger pieces make prep faster without sacrificing texture.

• Mint tip: Two sprigs give freshness without overpowering—add more only after tasting.

Hope you enjoy 🤍

I remember Mette.

When I first met her, I was 21 and she was 30, and in my head, that felt old. Like really old. The kind of old where you have your life together, where you just know things.

She wasn’t old.

She was just 30, and I was young and a little naïve.

She was one of the most talented chefs I knew. Not even just women chefs, just chefs, period. The way she moved in the kitchen, the way she understood things, it felt effortless in a way I couldn’t quite grasp yet. She didn’t teach me everything I know, but she taught me so much that I still carry with me today. And I hope she knows that. I hope she remembers that every day, how talented she is.

And now people are calling me old.

It’s funny how that happens.

I think about who I was back then a lot lately. Not in a sad way, just… noticing.

I remember sitting in a café with this woman, Sarah, and she asked me what I wanted to do. And I didn’t really have the language for it yet, but I knew the feeling.

I spent my summers watching America’s Test Kitchen. That quiet, methodical way of cooking. The explaining, the testing, the why behind everything. And I remember trying to explain that to her, saying something like, “I want to work at Food Network,” because that was the closest thing I had to words.

I didn’t know what food media was yet.

I just knew that was what I wanted.

And for a long time, it felt like everything I wanted… I got.

I had just read The Alchemist. I was fully in that mindset of, if you want something bad enough, the universe will find a way to give it to you. And maybe that sounds naïve now, but back then, it felt true.

And honestly? It kind of worked.

I wanted to teach. I did that.

I wanted to test recipes. I did that.

I wanted to develop recipes. I did that.

I wanted to be in test kitchens. I’ve been in more than I can count.

If I’m really being honest, I’ve probably done about 85% of the things I once dreamed about.

So then why does it feel like this?

Why does it feel heavy?

Why does it feel like I’m not enjoying it the way I thought I would?

I keep asking myself if something is wrong. If I’m ungrateful. If I’m burned out. If I need to pivot. If I’ve outgrown something. If something has outgrown me.

Or if I just need a break.

Because I think about cooking now, and it doesn’t feel gone. It just feels… distant.

Like me and cooking are in a long-term relationship, and we’ve hit that point where something isn’t clicking the same way anymore. Not broken, not over, just… off.

Like we either need therapy, or space, or to figure out how to meet each other again.

And I don’t know which one it is.

I used to be so sure.

I used to have this kind of delusion, this optimism that everything would work out because I wanted it to. And I miss that version of myself sometimes. Not because she was right about everything, but because she believed so fully.

I wonder if getting older is just becoming more realistic. Or maybe more tired. Or maybe just more aware of how hard things actually are.

Because now, I know what I want.

I still want to be a culinary producer. I still want to create, to build, to tell stories through food, to make things that live beyond a single moment.

But it feels harder to get there now.

Not impossible. Just… heavier.

Like the path isn’t as clear as it used to be.

And maybe part of that is the world. The layoffs, the instability, the way everything feels like it’s shifting all the time.

But maybe part of it is me too.

Maybe I rushed through parts of this without realizing it. So focused on getting somewhere that I didn’t fully sit in where I was.

Maybe I didn’t let myself enjoy it.

And now I’m here, ten years in, trying to figure out what this all means.

Not just cooking as a career.

But cooking as a part of me.

I keep thinking about this image I have in my head lately. I’m somewhere quiet. Maybe the countryside, maybe near a lake. There’s a bridge. I’m sitting with my feet in the water, going back and forth, trying to relax but also slightly scared that something might bite me.

Which feels… very on brand for me.

But still.

I’m not thinking about anything. I’m not checking my phone. I’m not waiting for an email or a message or the next thing.

I’m just there.

And I think that’s what I’m actually missing.

Not cooking.

Not ambition.

Just being in the moment.

Maybe that’s what this feeling is.

Not a full reset. Not a career change. Not me falling out of love with something I’ve spent so much time building.

Maybe it’s just me trying to find my way back to myself inside of it.

Or maybe it’s just me realizing that sometimes, after ten years, you don’t need a new path.

You just need to stop moving for a second.

I met most of them when they were two.

Two.

Tiny hands. Tiny voices. Big opinions.
And I remember thinking, oh my gosh, this is going to be so much fun. The recipes we’re going to make? They’re going to freaking love this.

Because from the beginning I wanted my classes to be fun. Not perfect. Not “look what these kids made.” Just fun. Messy. A little chaotic. A little proud.

One of the first things we ever made together was spanakopita

And honestly? I was surprised how much they loved it.
They loved cracking the eggs — very serious about it. They loved cutting spinach and those tiny scallions with their little chef knives. They loved sprinkling spices like they were doing something extremely important. And brushing the phyllo dough with olive oil? You would’ve thought we were in a Michelin kitchen.

Two-year-olds. Making spanakopita.

And thriving.
And the thing is — I always believed they could do it.

That’s something I’ve always loved about myself (and something the nannies and parents have said too): I give them freedom. I get down to their level. I look them in the eye. I see them.

I don’t see “too little.”

I see capable.

Because two-year-olds walk into a kitchen thinking, of course, I can do this.
So I hand them their little kid chef knives and let them cut. Uneven pieces. Big pieces. Proud pieces.

And when they pause and say, “I can’t,” I say, “Yes, you can.”

I didn’t know how I knew.
I just believed it.
And then they believed me.
And then they believed themselves.
I like to boost their egos.
And they like to bruise mine.

Honestly? That feels fair.
—
Fast forward two years.

Most of them are five now. Some are three going on thirty. Some started at one — barely steady, barely speaking — and now they walk into class like tiny executives ready to run the kitchen.

Some days it’s chaos.

Real chaos.

I’m fighting for my life.
They’re fighting me.
We’re fighting the clock.

Because the class is an hour and a half. Or an hour. Or honestly… however long I can realistically hold their goddamn attention.

That’s the real tea.

Flour on the table. Someone forgot to wash their hands. Someone insists they’re the head chef. Someone else is emotionally attached to a whisk and refuses to let it go.

And then there are the colours.

One kid only wants orange. Everything has to be orange — the bowl, the spoon, the plate. Another kid will only accept purple. If the spatula isn’t purple, we are dangerously close to a meltdown.

My kids are good, though. They usually regulate. They recover.
But sometimes we are one wrong-colored bowl away from disaster.
And somehow… we still get dinner made.
—
Other days?
They are angels.
Focused. Careful. Proud.
Cracking eggs without shells slipping in. Stirring like they’ve done it their whole lives. Measuring like it matters.
And I just stand there like… how did we get here?
Because I remember the first day.
Some of them were shy then. Really shy.
Barely saying hello.
Now they walk straight up to me when they arrive.
“Kenesha, look at my dress.”
“Kenesha, guess what I did this weekend?”
“Kenesha, we went on vacation.”
“Kenesha, I’m having a sleepover tonight.”
And I’m standing there thinking… wow.
You used to be two.
—
And now the younger siblings are in the class too.
The little brothers and sisters who used to watch from the side are suddenly standing at the table with their own tiny knives.
And they’re doing such a good job.
And I’m so proud of them.
Now the kitchen has this whole new mix of ages again — two-year-olds, three-year-olds, five-year-olds — and it feels like the cycle is starting all over again.
And honestly?
It’s beautiful.
—
When I started, I really wanted the menus to be veggie-forward.
I wanted vegetables to feel normal. Not punishment. Not “eat this because it’s healthy.” Just… food.
And it worked.
They eat zucchini raw in the summer like it’s a snack. Mushrooms don’t scare them. Butternut squash is familiar. String beans aren’t a negotiation anymore.
That didn’t happen by accident.
This year, though? I’ll be honest. I might have cheated a little.

We’ve been making more desserts.

Ina Garten’s chocolate pudding. King cakes. Samosas. Empanadas. Dough from scratch. A lot of dough. A lot of raw eggs cracked with concentration and just a little fear.

Maybe the first year was about vegetables.
Maybe this year is about technique.
Or maybe dessert just keeps the room calmer.

That’s also real.

And sometimes — if I’m being honest — I try to bring adult recipes into a kids’ world and they don’t always translate the way I imagined.
Sometimes dinner isn’t that great.
Sometimes I overcomplicate something.
That’s a growing area for me.
—
Then comes dinner.
And this moment always happens.
The food is plated. Everyone sits down.
And I just stand there.
Staring.
Because this is the real test.

Am I about to hear a “yuck”… or a “yum”?

Most of the time it’s a yum. And I breathe.
Sometimes it’s a tiny “I don’t like this.”
And I won’t lie — that used to hurt my ego.
But kids are the most honest food critics you will ever meet.
If they love it? It’s good.
If they don’t? It’s disgusting.
There is no in-between.
And sometimes they’re right.
—
We’ve also made songs.

“The spoon in the bowl goes round and round…”

Sometimes we sing it in Spanish. I struggle. They don’t. They sing confidently like it’s nothing.
Sometimes they make up their own songs.
Sometimes we’re just stirring and laughing, and I forget I’m technically working.
—
And sometimes I look at them and realize something.
This must be what my teachers felt when they saw me years later.
You know, when you run into a nursery school teacher, and they say,

“Oh my God, you got so big.”

Now I understand that feeling.
Because my two-year-olds are five-year-olds.

My one-year-olds are three.

The babies who were barely sitting up are now two, holding knives and stirring batter.
And time just keeps moving.
—
I don’t know how long I’ll get this exact group.
But I hope I’m still teaching when they’re ten.
I hope I’m still around when they’re teenagers.

Maybe that’s selfish.

Maybe it’s not.
I just want to be there for the long run.
And even if none of them become chefs… I hope they carry something with them.
I hope they remember that food wasn’t scary.
I hope they remember that vegetables can taste good.
I hope they remember that someone once looked at them at two years old and said,

“Yes, you can.”

And honestly?

That feels like enough.

The year started, and I realized something immediately:

I am fighting for my life.

Not in a dramatic, cinematic way. No wind machines. No slow-motion walk. Just me, standing in my kitchen, staring at nothing, wondering how it’s only January and I’m already tired.

And somehow, without asking permission, my brain keeps drifting back to 2016.

Ten years ago.

One of the best years of my life.

I don’t think 2016 was just good; I think it was optimistic. Like, embarrassingly optimistic. We really believed life would keep opening up. We believed in momentum. We believed in becoming.

That was the year I openly chose culinary. Not quietly. Not as a side thought. I chose it with my chest. I didn’t know exactly where it would take me, but I knew it felt right. And ten years later, even on the days I’m exhausted, even on the days I question everything, I am eternally grateful I chose food.

Food has always been my anchor. Even when the world feels like it’s moving too fast, or collapsing in on itself, food still asks you to slow down. Chop. Stir. Taste. Wait. It doesn’t rush you. It meets you where you are.

Back then, everything felt slower. Not easy. just slower.

Life didn’t feel like an express train. It felt like a long ride through the countryside. Maybe on a donkey cart. Maybe the donkey is tired. But you’re still laughing. You’re still looking around. You’re still there.

And the music?

Don’t get me started.

Rihanna’s ANTI. Beyoncé’s Lemonade. Music that felt like a cultural reset. Songs you played loud, windows down, singing like nobody was recording you. Music that lets you be dramatic, soft, angry, in love, delusional, all at once.

We fell in love with life back then.

We fell in love with being weird.

With being funny.

With being outlandish.

We weren’t trying to be perfectly informed or perfectly branded. We weren’t auditing ourselves in real time. We weren’t constantly asking, How does this look? or What does this say about me?

We were just… being.

Maybe it’s my generation, not Gen Z, but the one right before them. The ones who grew up with the internet but didn’t fully live inside it yet. We didn’t feel like everything had an audience. We didn’t feel like every thought needed a thesis.

Now everything feels heavier. Deeper. More performative. More self-aware to the point of paralysis.

We care — deeply — about social issues, about justice, about equality. And that matters. But sometimes it feels like we forgot how to be light. How to be carefree without guilt. How to love without a PowerPoint presentation.

Even love feels different now.

People don’t know how to just be in love anymore. Everything is extreme. Everything is over-analyzed. Every feeling has a label, a red flag, a think-piece. I miss rom-com love. I miss delusional love. I miss the kind of love that wasn’t trying to be perfect — just real.

I miss restaurants being an adventure.

I miss saying yes to the expensive place and the hole-in-the-wall.

I miss getting drunk just because it was Thursday.

Now I get one cocktail and my body is like, Okay, but why would you do that to me?

I know part of this is age. Part of it is growth. Part of it is knowing too much.

But I also think something shifted.

Life used to feel livable.

Not optimized.

Not constantly evaluated.

Just livable.

And maybe — maybe — it wasn’t the year. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was youth. Maybe it was ignorance. Maybe it was hope.

This year, as I fight for my life in 2026, I’m trying to remember what 2016 gave me — not to live in the past, but to bring pieces of it forward. The joy. The slowness. The trust in becoming. The willingness to not know everything.

To cook without rushing.

To love without overthinking.

To listen to music and feel something again.

To be a little delusional.

To be a little free.

If I can carry even a slice of that version of myself into this year, then maybe I’m not just fighting for my life.

Maybe I’m learning how to live it again.

In Guyana, we call it rice porridge—not rice pudding. It’s a dish that always made me feel loved. When I was a child, there was always someone in the kitchen making rice porridge. We usually used plain white rice and simmered it low and slow in coconut milk, filling the house with warmth and the kind of comfort you never forget.

For my version, I used sushi rice—a short-grain rice that cooks up extra creamy. Since it’s mango season in Guyana, I’ve been feeling a little homesick lately, and this bowl of rice porridge brought me right back.

It reminded me of climbing my neighbor’s tree to pick mangoes, grabbing guavas from the tree in my backyard, and standing beside my grandmother as we made guava jam together. The passionfruit took me to the vines that used to grow along the fence at my childhood home—how I’d pick them off and pop them open right there and eat them.

So, I topped this porridge with guava jam, mango, and passionfruit. For a moment, I felt like I was back in my childhood home in simpler times. This dish—simple as it is—turned out to be one of my greatest childhood memories in a bowl.