Love Translated in the Kitchen: A Tribute to my Grandmother

If love could be measured in cups of rice, sprinkles of sazon, and the sound of garlic sizzling in a pan, then my grandmother’s kitchen was a sanctuary of love.

Her name was Doña Blanca and she would have been 79 on August 3rd. If you read until the end, you'll see her beautiful smile pictured. Even though she’s no longer here, every time I step into my kitchen, I feel her presence. I see her in the steam rising from a pot of rice, in the way cilantro perfumes the air, in the music that drifts through the room while I stir. For her, cooking was never just about food. It was her love language.

My Grandmother’s Kitchen

Growing up, our kitchen was always alive.

Fragrant smells of garlic, cilantro, cumin, and sofrito filled the air. There was always music playing — sometimes salsa, sometimes ballads — and someone, usually my mom, would grab the wooden spoon and use it as a karaoke mic. The kitchen wasn’t just where we cooked; it was where we laughed, sang, and shared life.

I remember my grandma in her element — the kitchen window open, Univision playing faintly in the background, and the hum of the city sneaking in through the breeze. I can picture her so clearly: standing at the sink, carefully washing her rice before cooking it. I remember her giving me and my sister small chunks of masa to play with while she made homemade tortillas. Her rhythm was steady, unhurried, almost sacred. She wasn’t just cooking; she was offering her heart in every pot she stirred.

Now that I think about it, I don't remember my grandfather ever going a single evening without a freshly cooked dinner. And as a child, I didn’t think much of it — it was just life. But now that I’m older, I realize what a gift it was. My grandmother’s love language was acts of service, and she spoke it fluently through her food. Her meals were comfort, tradition, and devotion all wrapped into one.

And honestly? Her cooking was top tier Latin cuisine — the golden standard. No restaurant could touch it, and I doubt any ever will.

My Journey with Cooking

For most of my adult life, I cooked because I had to. It was a task to check off after work — something squeezed in between long days, commutes, and exhaustion. I liked cooking, but I didn’t love it. It was practical, necessary, and sometimes enjoyable, but it didn’t feel sacred.

Then I became a mother. I became a wife. I left the workforce. And suddenly, the kitchen became something new.

It became my place of creativity. A space where I could express love, nurture my family, and connect with the women who came before me. It’s funny — I used to dread chopping onions after a long day at work, but now I find it calming. The rhythm of stirring, tasting, seasoning — it grounds me.

And in those moments, I think of my grandma. I think of how she expressed her love best when her hands were in the kitchen, and how, without even knowing it, she passed that gift down to me.

Cooking as Love in My Marriage

Now that I’m a wife, cooking has taken on another layer of meaning.

There’s something so tender about handing my husband a hot plate of food after a long day of work. It feels like saying: I see you. I appreciate you. Thank you for all you give to us. Let me give something back to you.

No, I’m not the best cook in the city — nowhere near my grandma’s level — but I see growth in myself with every meal. When my husband requests something specific, I love the challenge of bringing it to life. It’s more than just following a recipe; it’s translating my love and respect for him into something tangible.

He gives so much — providing, protecting, pouring himself out for me and the girls. And cooking for him feels like one small but meaningful way I can give back. It’s my act of love, my way of saying: Because you provide for us, I get to provide for you — not just a meal, but health, strength, and comfort.

We’ve also made healthier changes in the way I cook, because I want him to be around for a long time. I want him strong and healthy. And that starts with what’s on his plate. Love, in this season of life, sometimes looks like swapping out ingredients, cutting down on fried foods, or sneaking vegetables into meals so that I’m caring not only for his heart but his future.

Proverbs 31 in the Kitchen

There’s a verse in Proverbs 31 that often comes to mind when I’m cooking for my family:

“She is like the merchant ships, bringing her food from afar. She gets up while it is still night; she provides food for her family and portions for her female servants.”(Proverbs 31:14–15)

The Proverbs 31 woman is often described as strong, wise, resourceful, and diligent. But tucked in that description is also her role of feeding her household. Not because it’s just her “job,” but because it’s part of how she cares for and nurtures them.

That resonates with me. Because when I put a plate down in front of my husband or my daughters, it’s not just about filling their stomachs. It’s about filling their souls with love and stability. It’s about creating an atmosphere where they feel safe, cared for, and seen. And at the same time, I’m writing a new story for my daughters.

Someday, when they grow up and step into their own kitchens, I hope they’ll remember the smells, the music, the laughter, the warmth. I hope they’ll think of me the way I think of my grandma — as someone who poured love into every meal.

When Love Tastes Like Garlic and Cilantro

Love doesn’t always look like big, grand gestures. Sometimes it looks like chopping with tired hands, with a baby on my hip and a toddler standing by my side asking to stir. Sometimes it smells like garlic simmering in a pot. Sometimes it sounds like laughter echoing in a kitchen where music is always playing.

Cooking is my love language because it connects me to the women before me, grounds me in the present, and gives me hope for the future. It’s the way my grandma told her family: I love you. It’s the way I tell my husband: I appreciate you. And it’s the way I’ll teach my daughters: Love is meant to be shared — sometimes in words, sometimes in meals.

So yes, I may not be Top Chef, but every plate I prepare is seasoned with love and intention. Each plate is a whispered thank you to God for provision, produce and poultry. Each meal is a new memory and a soft appreciation for my husband. And that, I think, is the most beautiful recipe of all.

Tell me in the comments: what dish connects you back to your family? And what do you hope your children will remember about your cooking one day?

xx

Santa Naisha