Years ago, I was fortunate enough to spend some time in Newport, Rhode Island, and I fell completely in love with the place. I can’t wait to go back someday. As a foodie, of course, my first mission was to find the very best clam chowder I could. So at every restaurant I visited, I ordered a bowl.
The clear winner was from a restaurant called the Black Pearl. Their chowder had the perfect balance of creaminess, texture, and flavor—something I’ve never forgotten.
Now that I’m vegan, I steer clear of seafood, but my love for clam chowder has never faded. And I don’t think I’m the only one. The most-viewed recipe on my blog, with nearly 7,000 views, is my vegan lobster bisque made with lobster mushrooms. That’s when it occurred to me—it might be time to try my hand at a vegan version of clam chowder.
Part of the reason I love creating plant-based versions of old favorites is because it lets me keep the memories without taking anything from the ocean that gave them to me in the first place.
The sea has always felt like something sacred—wide, mysterious, and alive—and these days I’d rather celebrate its flavors than deplete its creatures. If a bowl of chowder made with mushrooms and a pinch of dulse can capture that same coastal comfort, then to me, that feels like a small, delicious way of giving something back.
This recipe uses oyster mushrooms in place of clams and is seasoned with dulse flakes for that subtle taste of the sea. I promise—you’ll be in chow-dah heaven.
A creamy, coastal-inspired chowder made with tender oyster mushrooms, potatoes, and a silky cashew cream. Comforting, nostalgic, and completely plant-based.
Ingredients
Scale
Chowder
1 yellow onion, diced
2 stalks celery, diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
6 oz oyster mushrooms, small dice
3 small russet potatoes, small dice
Leaves from 10 sprigs fresh thyme
4 cups vegetable stock
2 Tbsp dulse flakes
1 tsp garlic powder
1 tsp salt
1 tsp pepper
1 tsp white miso paste (optional, for depth)
1–2 tsp lemon juice (to finish)
Fresh parsley, chopped (optional garnish)
Cashew Cream
1 cup raw cashews
1 tsp garlic powder
1 tsp onion powder
1 tsp sea salt
Dash white pepper
1 cup water
1 tsp lemon juice or apple cider vinegar
Instructions
1. Make the cashew cream Add cashews, garlic powder, onion powder, salt, white pepper, lemon juice, and water to a high-speed blender. Blend until completely smooth. Set aside.
2. Sauté the mushrooms Warm a Dutch oven over medium heat. Add the diced oyster mushrooms and sauté dry or with a splash of stock until lightly browned, about 5–6 minutes. Add a small splash of tamari or soy sauce (about ½ tsp) and cook 30 seconds more. Remove mushrooms and set aside.
3. Build the base In the same pot, add 2 Tbsp vegetable stock, onions, and celery. Sauté until onions are translucent, about 7–8 minutes. Add garlic and cook until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Season lightly with a pinch of salt.
4. Simmer the chowder Return mushrooms to the pot. Add potatoes, thyme, vegetable stock, dulse flakes, garlic powder, salt, pepper, and miso (if using).
Bring to a boil, then cover and reduce heat to low. Simmer for 15–20 minutes, until potatoes are tender.
5. Thicken naturally(optional but recommended) Mash about ½ cup of the potatoes directly in the pot to create a thicker, chowder-like body.
6. Finish with cream Stir in the cashew cream. Add lemon juice and taste for seasoning. Adjust salt and pepper as needed.
7. Serve Ladle into bowls and top with fresh parsley if desired. Serve with croutons or oyster crackers.
Notes
Chef Steph Tips
For a more traditional New England profile, skip the dill and keep the thyme and parsley.
For extra ocean depth, a tiny pinch of Old Bay works beautifully.
The chowder thickens as it sits—add a splash of stock when reheating.
Some of my earliest food memories live alongside music. Some of my fondest food memories are tied to Shakedown Street.
Lot food. Real food.
Veggie burritos wrapped in foil and eaten wherever you landed. Coolers cracked open. Paper plates balanced on knees.
Food made by people feeding each other because that’s what the moment required.
This was vegan food for me before I had language for it.
Plant-based eating before it was curated, branded, or explained.
Food born of conscience, necessity, and community.
That way of eating shaped me as much as the music did.
Months ago, I made a grown-up version of what I once called my Garcia grilled cheese—an echo of those early influences, translated through time.
Sourdough ligthly toasted and brushed with black truffle oil.
Garden pesto piled high.
Heirloom tomatoes layered in.
Vegan feta melted until it was creamy and unapologetic.
Warm, nourishing in every way.
A simple thing, elevated, but still rooted in the same impulse: feed people well, because that’s what the moment asks for.
It came together the same way the lot food always did—intuitively, without performance.
Indulgent and grounding at the same time. A reminder that nourishment doesn’t have to be austere to be honest.
That grilled cheese was about presence. About pleasure without apology. About feeding the moment you’re standing in.
This Bobby Bowl is what I carry forward—a small offering, made while listening to Bobby and the boys.
It’s lighter. Cleaner. More alive.
It honors California food as I’ve always understood it—sun-fed, mineral, honest.
Greens that still taste like the earth.
Sprouts that are actively growing.
A bowl meant to be eaten barefoot, windows open, early light coming in.
This recipe isn’t about nostalgia.
It’s about continuity.
Because what we were being fed wasn’t only food.
The Harmony That Held Us
The last time I saw Bobby was at the Sphere in Las Vegas in 2024. It felt like coming home again—not to a place, but to a unifying frequency.
To an extended family bound by vision and a shared knowing that the world is alive with meaning, layered and shimmering, far more mysterious than we’re taught to believe.
I assumed there would be another show. Another tour. Another next time.
You don’t realize you’re standing inside a last moment. You just think you’ll see them again.
That weekend felt like a reunion in the truest sense.
Friends came in from all over the country—people I’d been bound to for decades, not because of proximity or nostalgia, but because of what the music represented.
We picked up right where we left off.
Because when a bond is formed around shared vision instead of circumstance, it doesn’t erode. It doesn’t require maintenance.
It simply is.
In 1990, my freshman year at Mizzou, there was a group of us who all landed on the Dead at the same time.
Looking back now, it feels less like something we discovered and more like something we were led toward.
It became everything we did—listening to music, hanging out, going to shows, and slowly learning how to look at the world through a different lens.
What started as music became a way of seeing.
A shared orientation.
A quiet agreement that there was more going on here than we’d been told, and that paying attention mattered.
That orientation felt familiar even then—like an inheritance.
It echoed the generation before us, the people of the 1960s who challenged authority, questioned consensus reality, and cracked open the idea that consciousness itself could expand.
The music carried that lineage forward.
Not as nostalgia for a past we hadn’t lived, but as a continuation of the same inquiry—translated into our own moment.
Psychedelics certainly played a role in that widening of perception.
They weren’t an escape so much as an opening—a way of loosening the grip of what we’d been told was fixed or unquestionable.
Around the same time, I was reading Ken Kesey, discovering meditation, and finding others who were asking the same kinds of questions.
The music, the books, the inner work, the community—they braided together.
The Grateful Dead connected me to a sense of Godliness in a way no church ever could.
It wasn’t about doctrine or rules—it was about direct experience—a feeling, a subtle knowing and recognition, a connection to joy, love, and a humbled reminder of our shared humanity.
A hug, and an I love you, man.
An I dont know you, friend, but I love you.
Strangers hugging strangers.
Whatever you want to call it—each of us names it differently, but the understanding is the same thing: the Source, the flow, the other side, the way, it’s always there; it just gets buried.
Their music helped clear a path back to it, not by telling us what to believe, but by reminding us how to listen and how to see it’s shining light in one another.
What emerged wasn’t just a taste in music. It was a way of standing in the world.
A shared understanding that reality is layered, that authority can be interrogated, that lived experience matters.
And within that, I found like-minded people—and a place that felt more like home than any physical place ever had.
What that world gave me wasn’t fantasy. It was learning how to see with clear eyes.
Not from idealism. Not from anger. But from something deeper—almost universal.
A truth that didn’t need convincing or defending. Something that would stay with me for life.
The music taught me to think outside the box—not because boxes are bad, but because most of them are inherited without question. It taught me to pause, look again, listen harder.
To notice who benefits from the rules and who gets left out by them.
That kind of awareness doesn’t make you louder.
It makes you steadier.
Almost overnight, penny loafers became Birkenstocks. Argyle sweaters gave way to tie-dyes. Not as costume—never as costume—but as a shedding.
A declaration.
I never looked back because there was nothing honest to return to.
In the summer of 1991, my dad spent a few months in San Francisco. While he was there, he sent me a tie-dyed postcard from Haight-Ashbury.
By the time I saw the Grateful Dead live that fall—1991, at the Cleveland Coliseum—we’d already shared something that didn’t need explaining.
It was a cool connection to have with my father.
A quiet exchange, young and old, reminding each other what it’s all about.
The postcard had a quote from The Doors on it:
I awoke with the dawn, and put my boots on. I took a face from the ancient gallery and walked on down the hall.
The West is the best. See you in September.
Love, Dad.
It didn’t feel like advice. Or persuasion. Or a lesson.
It felt like recognition.
Like we were meeting each other in the same place from different points on the road.
Seeing the Dead live didn’t start anything. It confirmed what I already knew.
I wasn’t getting off that bus.
What About Bob?
There was something about Bob Weir that always felt steady.
Not flashy. Not transcendent in a way that left the body behind.
He stayed here. In the song. In the rhythm. In the long arc of the work.
He held the middle.
While others burned bright or fell away, Bobby kept showing up—barefoot, weathered, present. He didn’t abandon the experiment when it got hard or when time took its toll.
He kept walking it forward, letting the music age, letting himself age with it.
There was wisdom in that. A kind of faithfulness that didn’t need explaining.
What the Grateful Dead offered wasn’t escape.
It was orientation.
A way to stand inside uncertainty without needing to dominate it.
A way to listen—really listen—to each other, to the moment, to what was trying to emerge.
Bobby carried that forward long after many others were gone.
He kept the door open.
That’s why this loss feels different.
Not because the music stops—it doesn’t. But because one of the living anchors is gone.
And still, what he embodied remains.
In the songs. In the way we gather. In the way we feed each other.
In bowls of food passed across tables. In memories that don’t fade but deepen.
This recipe, this writing, this act of attention—it’s all part of that same lineage.
Not trying to hold on. Not trying to recreate. Just continuing.
Because nothing real is ever lost. It just changes form.
Memphis, 2003
In 2003, I saw Bobby at the New Daisy Theater in Memphis.
That night lives separately in my memory—clear, embodied, intact. He held the center of that room without effort. Barefoot. Sweet-eyed. Steady. He wasn’t trying to transcend life. He was fully in it.
Grounded. Present. Keeping the experiment human.
I was dancing—not watching, dancing—when someone asked if I wanted to meet him backstage.
Backstage wasn’t glamorous. It was quiet.
Human.
We stood together and took a picture.
Nothing ceremonial.
No performance.
Me and Bobby (2003)
At the time, it felt special, but not monumental.
But, somehow I knew.
It felt like alignment rather than novelty. Like something clicking into place without needing to be named.
The kind of moment that doesn’t announce itself— it simply settles in, and remained pure and grateful.
When the Anchors Are Gone
I took it extremely hard when Jerry Garcia died. That loss cracked something open in me. But Bobby was still here. And so was Phil, Mickey, and Bob.
The music kept breathing. The way of being—curious, awake, communal—still had living anchors in the world.
Now Bobby is gone. And Phil is gone.
And with them, something has completed itself.
Not just a band.
Not just an era.
But a way of being that shaped my inner life for decades.
There was simply nothing like it.
And it fucking hurts.
Not in a poetic way. Not in a way that wants to be softened.
It hurts because something real is over. Because what once felt endless is suddenly finite. Because this music didn’t just accompany my life—it helped form it.
When I heard Bobby had died, Brokedown Palace rose up immediately—not as a thought, but as a feeling. A trust in laying the road and the body down together.
In letting the burdens fall away. In being received by something vast enough to call us home.
The Grateful Dead didn’t give me answers. They gave me permission.
Permission to trust experience over approval. Permission to choose conscience over comfort. Permission to live awake, even when it put me on the fringe.
That’s what I mean when I say I never got off the bus.
His death unlocked memories.
When music shapes a very formative time in your life, it doesn’t live only in your ears—it embeds itself in your body, your identity, the way you learned how to see.
So when that music loses one of its living anchors, it isn’t just the person you grieve.
You grieve the version of yourself that was formed in that sound. The time, the openness, the becoming. A whole interior landscape comes back online at once.
That’s what this kind of loss does. It reminds you who you were when everything first cracked open—and that part of you still matters.
We didn’t know then that Bobby had been diagnosed with cancer back in July.
His fans weren’t told.
There was no announcement, no public reckoning with illness.
We only learned after his daughter shared news of his passing.
In typical Bobby fashion, he didn’t ask for sympathy or fuss.
He didn’t make a show of it.
He stepped back the same way he always did on stage—quietly, unassumingly, letting others—or the music itself—take the lead.
No performance. No explanation.
Just a gentle withdrawal into the life he had left.
That restraint was its own kind of generosity. A final act of grace.
What I Carry Forward
So I cook. I feed people. I stay awake.
This bowl—this food—is part of that devotion.
What I carry forward is compassion. Awareness. And the understanding that we are all just walking each other home.
I was reminded of that when I saw Ram Dass’s Instagram feed—a photograph of him and Bobby together.
Two men who understood, each in their own way, that presence matters more than performance.
That love doesn’t require volume.
That you don’t have to dominate a room to shape a life.
It didn’t feel surprising. It felt inevitable.
As if the thread had always been there—visible only to those paying attention.
Aside from his earliest days, I saw Bobby through every chapter his music lived in.
I didn’t follow out of nostalgia or loyalty to a band name—I kept showing up because the music kept meeting me where I was. It changed as I changed.
The music went on until I couldn’t anymore, not because it stopped mattering, but because time and life eventually ask different things of our bodies.
What he gave won’t end as long as the spirit remains. And the spirit doesn’t belong to one body or one lifetime—it moves through all of us.
There’s a thread that connects us, whether we name it or not, and Bobby’s music lived on that thread.
It met people where they were, softened what needed softening, and reminded us—again and again—to come back to the heart.
Now that Bobby has left the body, what he offered is still here. Not as a performer or personality, but as a presence.
It’s the quiet knowing that we are all walking each other home, carried by the same music, the same love, the same shared breath.
It just moved out of the room and into memory, into the way certain songs still land in my chest, into the quiet recognition that something meaningful walked alongside me for decades.
Now that he’s gone, the music lives on the way all real things do—carried by people, by feeling, by the unseen vibrations that keep moving long after the sound itself fades.
As Ripple says, “If I knew the way, I would take you home.” Maybe that’s what he was always doing—walking with us, song by song, until we remembered the way for ourselves.
This recipe is a small token—my way of giving back. I could never repay what the music gave me.
That gift is too large, too formative, too alive.
But I can pass it along. I can feed people. I can keep Bob’s memory moving through the world through my art, the way the music always moved through me.
A way of saying thank you—for the music, for the memories, for the long strange trip, and for the understanding that the end is never the end.
It’s a crossing. A release. A beginning that asks us to keep listening.
River gonna take me Sing me sweet and sleepy All the way back home
🌻
This is a raw vegan, living bowl. Nothing here should feel cooked down, muted, or overworked. If an ingredient looks tired, skip it.
Use the best produce you can find. When a dish is this simple, quality isn’t optional—it’s the point.
Greens should taste alive. If your dandelion greens are aggressive, use less. This bowl rewards restraint.
The dressing should almost disappear. If you can clearly identify “lemon” or “oil,” you’ve gone too far.
Toss the beans first. This grounds the bowl and keeps the greens from wilting.
Layer loosely. Scatter, don’t stack. This bowl needs air.
This bowl is meant to be eaten fresh. It does not travel well and does not want to be prepped hours in advance.
If you feel the urge to add heat or crunch, pause. Ask whether you’re improving the bowl or interrupting it.
Eat it barefoot if you can. Windows open. Light coming in.
The California Sunflower Bowl is a raw vegan, living bowl 🌱 🥣 with —fresh greens, sprouts, tender beans, and a barely-there dressing meant to feel like early morning light. It’s grounding without being heavy, expansive without excess. This is food that stays awake, food that keeps you in your body.
Ingredients
Scale
Living Greens
1½–2 cups watercress or pea shoots
½ cup dandelion greens, finely chopped (light hand)
Crunch & Color
½ cup red cabbage, shaved very thin
½ cup thinly sliced cucumber (English or Persian)
Living Add-Ins
½ cup sprouted sunflower seeds
¾–1 cup white beans (cannellini or navy), drained and rinsed (room temperature or gently warmed)
½ cup microgreens
1 ripe avocado, sliced
Nutritional yeast, just a touch.
Morning-Dew Sauce
3 Tbsp best olive oil
1½ Tbsp fresh lemon juice
1 tsp apple cider vinegar
¼ tsp fine sea salt, or to taste
Optional: ½ tsp white miso or a few drops of maple syrup
Instructions
Toss the beans first with a small spoonful of the dressing to ground the bowl.
Layer greens loosely in a wide bowl. Do not compress.
Scatter cabbage, cucumber, sunflower sprouts, and microgreens.
Nestle in avocado slices.
Drizzle lightly with remaining dressing.
Finish with a soft dusting of nutritional yeast.
Stop before it feels finished. This bowl wants space.
Lately, my days have been full in a very particular way. Between working late into the night, writing menus, and building out operations and procedures for work, my brain is constantly organizing and holding a lot at once.
At the same time, I’ve been writing more for my blog—reading, revisiting old movies, and soaking up time with my oldest home from college, while also sitting with the reality that my son leaves for boot camp in June.
I’m trying to really take advantage of this small pocket of downtime before I’m back in the kitchen and soon stepping into a newly assigned front-of-the-house lead role at Gateway—a shift that moves me into a more public, relational side of the work I already love. I’m honored. It feels like a liminal space: part reflection, part preparation.
What I crave most right now is food that feels healthy and nourishing without asking too much of me.
This bowl came together because of a craving more than a plan.
I kept thinking about pesto and white beans, and the way that combination feels both comforting and clean. Roasted cauliflower because I had some on hand—warm, caramelized, grounding. But I didn’t want the dish to feel flat or pale or beige. I wanted contrast. I wanted lift. I wanted something that felt intentional without being fussy.
That’s where the zucchini ribbons came in. I love their shape—the way they curl and fold instead of sitting still. They bring freshness, lift, and lightness that breaks up the softness of the beans. And then I wanted crunch, a little heat, and something bright enough to lift the whole dish. Lime-kissed pistachios with chili and fresh dill did exactly that. Salty, citrusy, herbal…a finishing element that wakes everything else up.
What I love most about this bowl is how rounded it feels. The butter beans provide real, sustaining plant-based protein. Between the beans, pesto, pistachios, and even the cauliflower, this is a meal that is super satisfiyng.
When my daughter asked me if I’d followed a recipe, I told her no. I followed my gut.
I was standing in the grocery store thinking about what sounded good together, what my body was asking for, and what felt right in that moment. There wasn’t a plan. And honestly, some of my favorite dishes come together that way. When you’ve been cooking as long as I have, ingredients start to speak to each other. You learn to listen.
That same instinct shows up in my writing, too. A lot of what’s been coming through lately—recipes, reflections, menus—feels unblocked and unfiltered. Less edited. More honest. And the results, both on the plate and on the page, have been quite delicious.
Why this recipe works is that it doesn’t require perfection—or a perfectly stocked fridge. This is a use-what-you-have kind of meal. If you have beans, something green, a sauce you love, and a way to add texture, you’re already most of the way there.
Butter beans are my favorite here, but cannellini, great northern, or even chickpeas work just as well. Jarred pesto is completely fine. Homemade is wonderful, but this isn’t the moment for extra work unless you want it to be. Roasted vegetables can be cauliflower, broccoli, Brussels sprouts—whatever’s already in your crisper. Zucchini ribbons can be swapped for shaved carrots, cucumber, or thinly sliced fennel.
The point isn’t the exact ingredients. It’s the structure.
This dish is great warm or cold, which makes it ideal for busy weeks. I love it slightly warm when it’s just been made, but it’s equally good straight from the fridge the next day. If you’re planning on leftovers, there’s one thing I really recommend: keep the pistachio crunch separate.
Nuts soften once they’re mixed into anything moist, and that crunch is doing important work here. Wrap the pistachios and keep them on the counter or in the pantry, then sprinkle them on right before eating. It takes almost no effort and makes the whole dish feel freshly made again.
One small detail that makes a big difference here: the pistachios I used were Wonderful brand jalapeño lime pistachios. They’re relatively new to the market, I think, and hands down my favorite, right alongside chili-roasted pistachios (Thanks, Amy).
They have just enough heat to show up, but they don’t overwhelm the dish or compete with everything else that’s going on. The lime in them echoes the citrus in the bowl, and the gentle heat arrives late, which keeps the whole thing balanced instead of spicy-for-the-sake-of-spicy.
If you don’t have those exact pistachios, don’t stress. Any lightly spiced or roasted nut will work. But if you do see jalapeño lime pistachios, they’re worth grabbing. They add personality without hijacking the plate.
If you don’t already have everything on hand, the shopping list is short. Beans. A green vegetable. A jar of pesto. A nut for crunch. One citrus fruit. Everything else is flexible.
A quick note on pesto: if you don’t feel like making it from scratch (and most days, I don’t), Whole Foods Market carries what is hands-down the best store-bought vegan pesto I’ve found. It’s the Gotham Greens Vegan Pesto, and it’s off the charts good.
Yes, it’s a little expensive, but it honestly comes out about the same as buying basil, pine nuts, garlic, olive oil, and nutritional yeast separately—and then taking the time to make it. It tastes fresh and balanced and does exactly what pesto should do: pull everything together without overpowering the dish.
This bowl was such a win that I’m already planning to add it to our vegan options at work. I’m always looking for plant-forward dishes that don’t feel like an afterthought—meals that stand on their own and feel just as intentional as everything else on the menu. This one holds beautifully, eats well warm or chilled, and actually leaves you feeling good.
And maybe that’s the thread running through all of this—food, writing, movies, hospitality. Paying attention. Not rushing. Letting things come together naturally before they’re asked to serve anyone else.
As I move back into the kitchen and toward the front of the house, that feels important to remember. Good food doesn’t just nourish bodies. It sets tone. It creates ease. It makes people feel held.
Sometimes the best recipes don’t come from a plan at all. They come from listening—and trusting that what you’re craving might actually know what it’s doing.
Creamy butter beans gently warmed in basil pesto and lemon zest, layered with cool zucchini ribbons and deeply roasted cauliflower. Finished with vegan feta and a bright lime–pistachio–dill crunch for contrast and texture. Herb-forward, balanced, and quietly satisfying.
Ingredients
Scale
Roasted Cauliflower
1 large head cauliflower, cut into bite-size florets
2 Tbsp olive oil
Kosher salt & cracked black pepper
Optional: pinch chili flake or Aleppo
Pesto Butter Beans
2 cans butter beans (or large white beans), drained & rinsed
¾–1 cup good-quality vegan basil pesto
Zest of ½ lemon
1 Tbsp lemon juice (more only if needed)
Fresh cracked black pepper
Zucchini Ribbons
2–3 medium zucchini, shaved into ribbons
1 tsp olive oil
Small pinch salt
Lime–Pistachio–Dill Crunch
½ cup shelled pistachios, raw or lightly roasted
Zest of ½ lime
1–2 Tbsp fresh dill, very finely chopped
Flaky salt, pinch
Optional: whisper of Aleppo or white pepper
Finish
Vegan feta (Violife preferred), crumbled
Extra olive oil or pesto for drizzling (optional)
Instructions
1. Roast the cauliflower
Heat oven to 425°F. Toss cauliflower with olive oil, salt, pepper, and optional chili. Roast 25–30 minutes, turning once, until deeply golden and tender. Set aside warm.
2. Warm the beans
In a wide sauté pan over low heat, add butter beans and pesto. Warm gently, folding rather than stirring. Add lemon zest, lemon juice, and black pepper.
Taste. This should be bright but calm, never sharp.
Remove from heat.
3. Prepare the zucchini
Toss zucchini ribbons with olive oil and a pinch of salt. Let sit 2–3 minutes to soften naturally. No heat. No force.
4. Make the crunch
Toast pistachios gently until fragrant. Cool completely. Mince finely by hand — shards, not dust. Fold in lime zest, dill, flaky salt, and optional spice just before serving.
This stays fresh only if it’s respected.
5. Assemble
Spoon pesto butter beans into bowls or onto a platter. Layer zucchini ribbons and roasted cauliflower over top. Finish with vegan feta and a light scattering of lime–pistachio–dill crunch.
Drizzle if needed. Stop before it becomes busy.
Notes
Best served warm or room temperature
Holds beautifully for service; crunch added last
Walnut can be substituted for pistachio if you want something earthier
I’m not setting resolutions this year.
I’m not interested in goals that live outside my body like commandments.
January 1 is an arbitrary line, and resolutions tend to be just as arbitrary.
Most of them aren’t born from readiness or truth—they’re imposed.
Cultural pressure.
Collective agreement.
The idea that change should begin on cue, regardless of season, capacity, or what the body is actually prepared to hold.
For most people, resolutions feel less like desire and more like burden.
Something to carry.
Something to prove.
They start out strong, fueled by adrenaline and guilt, mistaking intensity for sustainability.
And then—quietly—they dissolve.
The pattern is almost universal.
By mid-January, about 25–30% of people have already abandoned their resolutions.
By early February, nearly 80% are no longer actively following them.
The average resolution lasts 19 to 30 days before disappearing without ceremony.
By six months, only 8–10% of people are maintaining any meaningful change.
This isn’t a failure of discipline.
It’s a failure of framing.
Most resolutions ask the body to obey an idea it never consented to.
They live in language, not lived experience.
They demand consistency without offering ground.
They assume willpower can override rhythm, season, nervous system, grief, fatigue, and truth.
And that disconnect has a history.
The idea that the year begins on January 1 is relatively modern. It comes from the Gregorian calendar, introduced in the 16th century to standardize time for governance, taxation, and church administration.
Time was made legible to power.
Measurable.
Countable.
The beginning of the year was fixed to a date on paper—not to what was happening in the natural world, and not to what was happening inside the body.
January arrives in the dead of winter, when much of life is dormant, conserving, waiting.
And yet we are told: begin.
Decide.
Commit.
Accelerate.
Before January 1 became the beginning, time wasn’t ruled by a single date at all.
It was plural.
Regional.
Embodied.
Local
What existed before wasn’t chaos.
It was context.
The beginning of the year was fixed to a date on paper—rather than to anything the body, the land, or the sky could actually feel.
January arrives in the dead of winter for much of the Northern Hemisphere.
The ground is frozen.
Trees are bare.
Animals are conserving.
Nothing is beginning.
And yet we are asked—psychologically, culturally, economically—to start.
To declare intentions.
To manufacture momentum where nature itself is resting.
This dissonance is subtle, but it’s real. It teaches us to override our own rhythms in favor of an abstract schedule.
Older and more mystical calendars understood time differently. They did not imagine time as a straight line broken into equal squares, but as a living cycle—one that bends, pauses, darkens, and returns.
These systems oriented the year around movement and light: solstices and equinoxes, planting and harvest, waxing and waning.
Time was not something you kept. It was something you participated in.
In many Native American traditions across North America, the new year begins in spring.
Not because it is neat or convenient, but because it is obvious.
The soil softens.
Water moves again.
Seeds split open underground before anything is visible above the surface.
Birds return.
Life resumes its outward breath.
The year begins when motion becomes undeniable—when even the most resistant observer must admit that something has shifted.
In much of Asia, including Chinese traditions, the new year follows the lunar calendar, beginning with the new moon sometime between late January and mid-February.
This timing isn’t symbolic in the way modern rituals often are.
It’s energetic.
The moon governs tides, sleep, hormones, planting cycles, and inner states.
A lunar new year aligns the psyche with an actual change in momentum—a felt turning rather than a declared one.
Across all of these systems—solar, lunar, agricultural, ancestral—the common thread is this:
The year does not begin because we say it does.
It begins because life moves again.
Time, in these traditions, is not commanded. It is listened for.
The year begins when life moves again.
2025: The Snake, the Lovers, and the Ace of Pentacles
2025 was the Year of the Snake — a year of unraveling forward.
Not collapse.
Not destruction.
The Snake does not burn things down; it exposes the seams. It reveals what has been living too tightly wound for too long.
It sheds skin not out of drama, but necessity.
What could no longer breathe began to loosen.
What had been hidden by habit, loyalty, fear, or endurance rose to the surface—often through discomfort, sometimes through quiet clarity, always through truth.
This kind of unraveling isn’t chaotic.
It’s precise.
The Snake doesn’t rush.
It waits until the old skin is no longer viable, then slips free.
And once it does, there’s no going back inside what’s already been outgrown.
I don’t work with a single symbol in isolation. I pay attention to sequence.
The year itself carries an archetype—in this case, the Year of the Snake—and I pair that with my tarot birthday card for the year, and with the question I return to annually: Who am I becoming?
Together, they form a kind of triangulation. Not prediction, but orientation.
Paired with my tarot card for 2025, The Lovers, the Snake’s unraveling demanded discernment.
Not romance.
Not fantasy.
Alignment.
The Lovers isn’t about passion—it’s about choice with consequence. It reveals where we are split, where what we say and how we live quietly contradict each other. Where desire and values drift out of integrity.
Once something was revealed, I couldn’t unknow it.
Once I saw where I was divided, I was no longer innocent.
I had to choose—not impulsively, not idealistically, but honestly.
And when I asked the deck my annual question—Who am I becoming?—the answer was the Ace of Pentacles.
Not abundance as reward.
That’s how the symbols spoke to each other.
The Snake unraveled what wasn’t true.
The Lovers demanded alignment.
And the Ace of Pentacles made that alignment real.
Not by promising more—but by asking me to live what I already knew.
Not payoff.
Seed.
Something small enough to be overlooked, but real enough to change everything once planted.
Not a promise of abundance someday, but the beginning of responsibility now.
A truth no longer held in the mind or spoken aloud in careful language, but placed directly into the physical world—where it could be tested by time, effort, and repetition.
My new job.
Not as an achievement, but as an embodiment.
A daily practice of values instead of a theory about them.
Showing up.
Learning the terrain.
Letting consistency do what insight alone never could.
This wasn’t manifestation in the mystical sense—it was commitment in the mundane one.
Alarm clocks.
Schedules.
Decisions made even when the feeling wasn’t there.
There was also a leaving.
Not dramatic. Not sudden. Not fueled by anger.
It came from the same place as the seed.
A recognition that something I had been tending could no longer grow without costing me my own steadiness.
That staying required distortion.
That care had become management.
That love had been replaced by vigilance.
What I stepped away from was not just a person, but a pattern.
One that asked me to shrink my nervous system, soften my truth, and normalize instability as intimacy.
One that confused endurance with loyalty and silence with peace.
The Ace of Pentacles doesn’t negotiate with that.
It doesn’t ask for sacrifice dressed up as commitment. It asks for a life that can be repeated without harm.
Leaving was not an act of loss. It was an act of placement.
Placing myself back into a life that could be lived daily—without bracing, without apology, without needing to explain why steadiness mattered.
This was not escape. It was alignment made physical.
A boundary drawn not in words, but in days.
And once the seed is planted, there’s no returning to the ground that could not hold it.
That is the quiet demand of the Ace of Pentacles. It doesn’t dazzle.
It doesn’t seduce. It offers ground.
A place to stand. Something you can touch. Something that pushes back when you lean on it.
The Ace asks: Will you live this, or will you only understand it?
It turns belief into behavior. Intention into pattern.
Truth into something that must be maintained—not admired.
And this is where the sequence mattered.
The Year of the Snake stripped away what wasn’t true—old skins that had become too tight to breathe in. The Lovers asked me to choose what was—not ideally, not romantically, but honestly. And the Ace of Pentacles took that choice and anchored it in matter, time, and behavior.
No spectacle. No rush.
Just the steady work of becoming congruent—one small, solid step at a time.
Nothing about 2025 was fast.
Nothing was flashy.
But it was solid.
2025 wasn’t about acceleration or reinvention or becoming someone new.
It was about becoming real.
2026: The Horse, the Queen of Cups, and the Chariot
2026 arrives differently.
This year carries three converging archetypes for me:
the Year of the Horse, my Tarot birth card for 2026 — The Chariot, and the answer to my annual question, Who am I becoming? — the Queen of Cups, drawn again and again.
Together, they form a living system rather than a prediction.
The Horse: Momentum Without Force
2026 is the Year of the Horse — an archetype of vitality, momentum, and life force.
The Horse does not respond to control.
It does not submit to force.
It responds to presence.
In this framework, the Horse is not something I ride or dominate — it is the universe itself: timing, current, pull. Motion already in progress. Energy already moving. The Horse runs whether I interfere or not.
The Chariot: Participation, Not Conquest
When I calculated my Tarot card for this year, I arrived at The Chariot.
For example, my birthday is November 4. To calculate my Tarot card for 2026, I add 11 + 4 + 2026 = 2041, then reduce it (2 + 0 + 4 + 1 = 7), which corresponds to The Chariot.
The Chariot is often misunderstood as speed or conquest, but its deeper teaching is orientation. It does not create motion — it enters motion consciously. The charioteer does not pull the Horse. They do not whip it forward. They participate.
My work in 2026 is not to force movement.
It is to steer — to stay awake, grounded, and responsive as momentum unfolds.
The Horse pulls the Chariot.
The Chariot gives direction.
The Queen of Cups: Emotional Intelligence as Navigation
But direction does not come from will alone.
When I asked the cards Who am I becoming? I didn’t receive a destination. I received the Queen of Cups, repeatedly.
She is emotional sovereignty.
She feels without being ruled by feeling.
She listens without drowning.
She contains without closing.
Here, the Queen of Cups sits at the helm of the Chariot.
She is what gives the Horse direction.
A Horse without guidance runs until it scatters or exhausts itself.
Power without orientation becomes chaos.
The Queen of Cups does not restrain momentum — she orients it.
She translates emotion into intelligence, intuition into navigation.
She allows movement without self-abandonment.
The Synthesis
The universe provides momentum.
The Horse runs.
I provide the vessel.
The Chariot moves.
And the Queen of Cups holds the reins — not tightly, not fearfully, but with presence, discernment, and care.
This is not a year of forcing outcomes.
It is a year of conscious participation.
Not faster.
Clearer.
Not louder.
Truer.
Not driven by urgency —
but guided by emotional intelligence, embodied awareness, and trust in motion itself.
The Shift
2025 was about becoming true.
2026 is about moving true.
The Snake unraveled.
The Lovers aligned.
The Ace of Pentacles grounded.
Now the Horse moves.
The Chariot steers.
The Queen of Cups guides.
This isn’t surrender as disappearance.
It’s collaboration.
Emotion becomes intelligence.
Movement becomes intentional.
Trust replaces force.
My year doesn’t begin in January.
It doesn’t start with a square on a calendar or a promise made to the air.
It doesn’t arrive with fireworks, or resolutions that live outside my body.
My year begins when somethingmoves.
When emotion turns into intelligence.
When motion becomes intentional.
When I stop bracing and start listening.
January is administrative.
It belongs to clocks, invoices, and the illusion of control.
But my life doesn’t answer to paper time.
My year begins when the Horse stirs—
when momentum is no longer theoretical,
when the current is strong enough that I don’t have to force my way forward.
It begins when the Chariot knows where to land.
Not in abstraction.
Not in striving.
But in nourishment. In presence. In care.
It begins when grief finishes teaching.
When desire stops shouting and starts telling the truth.
When trust replaces effort.
Some years begin in spring.
Some in silence.
Some in the exact moment you realize you’re no longer who you were trying to survive as.
This year doesn’t ask me to become new.
It asks me toarrive.
From Archetype to Table
If the Horse is momentum and the Chariot is conscious participation, then the Queen of Cups teaches me where that movement is meant to land — not in abstraction, but in nourishment.
Because emotional intelligence isn’t theoretical.
It lives in the body.
And in the South, it lives at the table.
Southern New Year traditions were never about resolutions or reinvention.
They were about orientation — aligning yourself with what sustains life.
You didn’t declare who you wanted to be.
You prepared for what you hoped to receive and cared for what you already had.
You cooked.
Black-eyed peas for luck — not the kind you chase, but the kind that arrives when you stay present.
Greens for prosperity — because abundance grows where care is consistent.
Cornbread for fortune — humble, golden, grounding, made from what the land provides.
This isn’t superstition. It’s wisdom encoded as practice.
Just like the Queen of Cups, Southern food doesn’t rush.
It simmers.
It listens.
It understands that nourishment isn’t about excess — it’s about balance, timing, and tending what’s already alive.
The Horse Comes Home
Momentum without grounding scatters.
Feeling without containment overwhelms.
Movement without nourishment burns out.
The Chariot comes home to the kitchen.
The Horse pauses long enough to eat.
And the Queen of Cups does what she has always done:
she feeds without depletion, offers without self-erasure, and tends the pot until it’s ready — not sooner.
This meal isn’t about starting over.
It’s about continuing well.
About carrying luck forward.
About honoring what grows slowly.
About letting prosperity be something you participate in, not something you chase.
Into the Recipe
What follows is the Southern New Year trifecta — black-eyed peas, greens, and cornbread — prepared not as obligation or tradition-for-tradition’s sake, but as an act of orientation.
A way of saying to the year:
I’m here.
I’m listening.
I’m ready to receive what moves toward me —
and to tend what stays.
In the South, we don’t call them black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day. We call them Hoppin’ John — a name whose origins are layered and unresolved, much like the history it carries.
Some trace it to Gullah Geechee and West African language, others to the idea of “Poor John,” an everyman fed by what the land could reliably provide. What matters more than certainty is what endured: a pot of peas meant to sustain, to gather, to carry hope forward through repetition rather than promise.
My grandmother made Hoppin’ John every year. She was from the Bootheel of Missouri, born in the year of the Great Depression, and her mother before her, a farmer’s daughter, came out of Oklahoma — places shaped by farming, migration, scarcity, and survival.
I imagine the familiar weight of the pot, the slow simmer on the stove, the smell filling the kitchen long before anyone sat down.
For them, this wasn’t superstition or symbolism. It was orientation. You began the year by feeding the body, by tending what you had, by trusting that care itself invited what came next.
The peas returned each year not as a wish, but as continuity — a quiet declaration that we were still here. When I make it now, I understand it as inheritance rather than ritual: a way of meeting time grounded, attentive, and willing to begin again by nourishing life first.
What follows is my version of Hoppin’ John — simple, steady, and meant to be cooked slowly, the way it always has been.
Hoppin’ John is not just a dish — it’s a threshold ritual. A pot set to simmer at the turning of the year, carrying the quiet hope of continuity, nourishment, and enough to get through what comes next.
Across the American South, black-eyed peas have long been cooked on New Year’s Day as a symbol of prosperity, resilience, and renewal. The peas represent coins, the greens abundance, the rice sustenance — a meal rooted in survival wisdom rather than superstition. For families who knew scarcity, this wasn’t symbolic cooking; it was practical magic.
This version is plant-forward and deeply savory, drawing from the Creole trinity of onion, celery, and pepper, layered with garlic, fire-roasted tomatoes, and just enough smoke to honor tradition without replicating it. It’s the kind of dish meant to be made slowly, tasted often, and shared — a reminder that abundance doesn’t arrive loudly. It builds quietly, one pot at a time.
Serve it over rice, finish with heat and herbs, and let it mark the passage — not as a resolution, but as an offering.
Rinse dried black-eyed pea beans, pick through and discard any debris or bad beans. Add beans to a stockpot and bring to a boil. Boil for 5 minutes and remove from heat. Cover and let sit for 1-2 hours.
Warm a large, heavy skillet (I use cast iron), add 2 tbsp oil. When the oil is shimmering, add onions, bell pepper, celery, garlic, and jalapeños, sauté the mixture for 3-5 minutes. Add voodoo seasoning mix. Sauté until mixture has softened, about 3 minutes.
Add vegetable stock, tomatoes, tomato paste, and bay leaf.
Drain the soaked beans, rinse, and add the beans to the pot.
Reduce heat to a simmer, add liquid smoke, and cook, uncovered, for about 20 minutes.
At this point, if using, add collard greens, and cook for 5 more minutes, stirring occasionally,
Cook until beans are tender and slightly thickened.
Add more stock or water if the mixture becomes dry and thick. The texture of the beans should be thick, somewhat creamy but not watery.
Remove the bay leaves.
Taste and adjust for seasonings with pepper, seasoning, and salt if needed. Serve over cooked rice and garnish with green onion.
Add lots of Tabasco and enjoy it!
Serve over rice with a piece of cornbread, and enjoy! Oh, and don’t forget the hot sauce!
Notes
Dry vs. Canned Beans:
Dry beans yield the best texture — creamy, intact, and deeply flavored.
Canned beans are perfectly acceptable when time is short; reduce simmer time slightly and taste earlier for seasoning.
Texture Matters: Hoppin’ John should be thick and spoonable, not soupy. Add stock gradually near the end if needed.
Liquid Smoke: A little goes a long way. This replaces traditional smoked meat while keeping the dish grounded in its roots.
Greens (Optional but Traditional): Adding collards in the final minutes brings both bitterness and symbolism — “money in the bank” for the coming year.
Spice Control: Jalapeño adds warmth rather than heat. For more fire, rely on Tabasco at the table so everyone can choose their own threshold.
Make-Ahead Friendly: Like most bean dishes, this gets better after resting. Flavor deepens overnight.
Serving Suggestion: Serve over long-grain rice with chopped parsley or green onions. Finish generously with hot sauce.
Over Thanksgiving, I watched Memoirs of a Geisha—a film my girls hadn’t seen, one my mom recommended, and one I hadn’t revisited since it first came out. You never quite know how one thing leads to another.
Watching it again, I noticed how differently it asks to be seen. Not consumed, but observed. It trains the eye.
Silk. Choreography. Ritual. Discipline. Years of repetition hidden behind movements that appear effortless. Identity shaped not by declaration, but by endurance. Beauty that costs something.
Silence teaches. Seasons mirror inner change. Nothing is accidental—color, posture, timing, even stillness carries intention. Becoming is not about being seen, but about being shaped.
Anchoring the film is Ken Watanabe—steady, watchful, restrained. Authority without spectacle. Recognition without excess. Watching him again, I realized how deeply that presence had stayed with me—not just as a character, but as a way of being. A quiet mastery that doesn’t announce itself, but is immediately felt.
And as attention tends to do when it’s allowed to wander, it didn’t stop there. After the film ended, I looked up the cast and immediately recognized Michelle Yeoh from Wicked. That small recognition opened another door.
Almost inevitably, it led me to Tampopo.
And that’s where everything else began to gather.
Tampopo Centers on a Woman Who Is Becoming
At first glance, the two films couldn’t seem more different. One is silk and ceremony. The other is broth and steam. One is restrained and formal; the other playful, chaotic, absurd. And yet beneath the surface, they are speaking the same language.
Both understand that mastery is not chosen — it is survived into. Identity does not arrive through affirmation or confidence, but through repetition, humility, attention, and care.
In Tampopo, Tampopo—whose name means dandelion—is a single mother running a struggling ramen shop. She is earnest, overwhelmed, and keenly aware of her own inadequacy. Not ashamed of it. Just honest about how far she has to go.
She doesn’t want comfort or shortcuts. She wants mastery.
When she meets Gorō, a stoic truck driver with a discerning palate (played by Ken Watanabe), she does something radical in its simplicity: she asks for help. She offers to pay him to teach her how to make truly great ramen.
What follows is not instant success, but apprenticeship. Gorō becomes her anchor and protector, but the work quickly expands into community.
A self-appointed ramen sensei teaches discipline and tradition. Truckers offer blunt feedback. A contractor from a bar fight provides strength and loyalty.
Each man contributes something different—technique, critique, labor, lineage—but none of them replace her effort. Tampopo trains her body, her palate, her stamina.
She fails publicly. She practices relentlessly. She learns that ramen is not just flavor, but structure, timing, heat, and care.
This is not a story about transformation through talent, romance, or luck. It is a story about endurance. Tampopo does not become herself alone—and she does not become herself accidentally.
She becomes through repetition. Through humility. Through the willingness to be seen while learning.
By the time her ramen is finally judged, the victory is quiet and unmistakable: the bowls are emptied. The work holds.
She has become what she set out to be—not because she imagined it, but because she trained for it.
Tampopo doesn’t explain itself. It invites pursuit.
The Meaning Lives in the Pause
What struck me immediately — and what feels distinctly Japanese in its storytelling — is how punctuated Tampopo is. It moves in deliberate beats rather than smooth arcs. Scenes arrive, land, and end cleanly — sometimes abruptly — like brushstrokes lifted from the page.
There is space between moments. Silence after humor. Stillness after intensity. Nothing is rushed toward resolution.
This punctuation isn’t accidental; it’s cultural. Japanese storytelling often trusts the pause as much as the action, the cut as much as the continuity. Meaning is allowed to crystallize in the gaps.
The viewer isn’t carried forward by momentum so much as invited to stop, to notice, to sit with what has just occurred.
What stayed with me this time was how deeply metaphor is woven into that sensibility. So many Japanese films speak indirectly, asking you inward rather than explaining themselves outright. They trust that if you stay present long enough, meaning will surface on its own.
That rhythm feels rooted in Buddhist thought — reflection over reaction, impermanence over possession, attention as a form of devotion. Gesture carries weight. What is withheld matters as much as what is shown.
Each vignette stands on its own, yet accumulates power through repetition and contrast. The film doesn’t spoon-feed emotion; it places it carefully and steps back. And in doing so, it mirrors everything else it is teaching: attention over excess, intention over momentum, presence over performance.
Why Ramen Matters
To understand why the opening scene in Tampopo feels almost ceremonial, you have to understand what ramen represents in Japanese culture. Ramen is not just food. It is craft, labor, humility, and relationship—contained in a single bowl.
It is everyday food, but never casual. Ramen lives at the intersection of accessibility and mastery. Anyone can eat it. Not everyone can make it well.
And making it well is not about luxury. It is about attention. Broth developed over hours. Noodles chosen for texture and bite. Toppings prepared separately, then assembled with care. Balance matters more than excess. Harmony matters more than spectacle.
Ramen is also deeply democratic. Salarymen eat it after long days. Students eat it late at night. Chefs devote their lives to perfecting it—often one style, one broth, one expression. Entire reputations rest on whether a single bowl can be made the same way, every day, without shortcuts.
This is why ramen carries reverence. Not because it is rare, but because it demands integrity.
So when the old man teaches the younger man how to eat—telling him to look first, inhale the aroma, apologize to the pork, sip the broth before the noodles—he is not being theatrical. He is initiating him into relationship.
He is saying: this bowl contains someone’s labor, attention, and life energy. To rush it is to miss it. To consume without awareness is to flatten it.
When he says “see you again” to the pork, the line lands playfully—but it carries a Buddhist truth. Nothing truly ends. Effort circulates. Nourishment returns in another form. Hunger will return. Attention will be required again.
The younger man laughs because he does not yet understand that ramen, here, is a teacher.
This is why the rest of the film unfolds as it does. People are judged not by what they eat, but by how. Mastery is shown through repetition rather than brilliance. Garnish matters. Finishing the bowl is not greed, but gratitude.
Ramen in Tampopo is not elevated into fine dining—it is honored as daily devotion. And that distinction matters. Because the film’s deeper message is Buddhist at its core: enlightenment does not live only in temples or rituals. It lives in kitchens. In work done well. In care repeated without applause.
They are eating ramen. He is practicing reverence.
What they miss—and what the film keeps teaching—is this: nothing is taken without consequence, nothing truly disappears. The pork becomes warmth, energy, movement. The apology is not superstition; it is awareness.
The men who laugh are not cruel. They are simply unawake.
They are eating. He is communing.
And that distinction becomes one of the film’s central truths.
What the old man actually teaches
1. Attention is the first act of respect He tells him to look at the bowl, admire it, inhale the aroma, acknowledge each element before touching it. This is a lesson in presence. If you rush past what nourishes you, you rush past life itself.
2. Gratitude must precede pleasure The apology to the pork, the reverence for the broth — these come before eating. In Buddhist thought, desire without awareness is suffering. Pleasure rooted in gratitude becomes communion.
3. Mastery is humility, not dominance The younger men treat food as something to conquer, consume, rate. The old man treats it as something to meet.
That difference is the difference between knowledge and wisdom.
Why the other men don’t get it
They laugh because they are still operating from:
efficiency
convenience
ego
entitlement
They think food exists for them.
The old man understands that he exists because of it.
That’s enlightenment — not robes or sermons, but the quiet knowing that:
Life feeds life, and nothing should be taken unconsciously.
The deeper, unspoken lesson
The ramen becomes a koan.
If you can’t slow down for a bowl of noodles, you will miss love, grief, beauty, death, and devotion too.
The old man already knows this. The others are still hungry and don’t know why.
He was not teaching them how to eat ramen; he was teaching them how to stay awake while being fed.
Endurance as a Form of Love
The actress is Nobuko Miyamoto, and her becoming is not accidental. In Tampopo, she isn’t playing a fantasy of a chef — she’s playing a becoming. Curious, awkward, determined, exhausted, joyful. The sweetness of her performance is earned, not cute. It is humility in motion.
She is becoming, not performing.
Tampopo is not introduced as naturally gifted or assured. She is earnest, visibly unsure, still learning where her body belongs. Her hands hover. Her posture betrays effort. Her body doesn’t yet know where to rest.
Miyamoto plays her with exposed sincerity — someone willing to be seen trying, failing, asking, learning. What makes the performance extraordinary is that it is physical before it is intellectual. You can see the learning happen in her shoulders, in her stance behind the counter, in the way she watches people eat.
Early on, she moves like someone apologizing for taking up space. By the end, she occupies the kitchen with quiet authority — not louder, not flashier, just settled.
She embodies:
humility without weakness
persistence without bravado
femininity without ornament
Her Tampopo is neither ingénue nor master. She is the apprentice in real time. And because of that, she becomes a stand-in for anyone who has learned through repetition, embarrassment, and endurance rather than innate confidence.
By the final scenes, when she wears the chef’s hat and stands fully integrated in her shop, the transformation feels earned because it is subtle. Miyamoto never signals triumph. She lets it arrive in stillness — in the way Tampopo watches, waits, and no longer needs to ask.
She doesn’t conquer the world. She learns how to belong in it.
The film’s insistence that good food requires endurance is one of the most honest depictions of kitchen life ever put on screen. It tells the truth chefs know in their bones:
You need physical strength. You need stamina. You need repetition until the body knows before the mind does. You need muscle memory, not inspiration.
Cooking is not just art. It is labor. Training. Load-bearing devotion.
That truth landed for me when I thought about lifting fifty-pound boxes at Gateway — not as metaphor, but as fact. Heavy produce. Hot sheet pans. Full stock pots, sloshing and awkward to carry. Wrists steady. Stance grounded. Timing exact.
At the time, it was just the work. Necessary. Relentless. But in hindsight, I see what it was doing. It was building capacity — real strength in forearms and shoulders, balance and endurance, the steadiness that keeps food safe and people fed.
Tampopo doesn’t romanticize this away. It honors it. It says plainly: devotion requires capacity.
You don’t get to offer nourishment unless your body can hold it. And so the work trains you — rep by rep, service by service — until strength stops being something you think about and becomes something you are.
That’s why the film resonates so deeply for me. Because I live that truth.
The enlightenment in Tampopo does not descend from above. It rises from the ground up — through sore feet, burned forearms, aching backs, repetition, humility, and care. The body learns first. The mind follows later.
Awakening, the film insists, is not delicate.
It is muscular.
It asks something of the body.
And only when the body is willing to carry the weight does the offering become true.
Nourishment as the Final Act
In the middle of the film, a brief vignette becomes one of its darkest mirrors. The moment with the dying woman is unmistakable in its gravity. She is at the end of her life—barely able to stand, her body already receding—yet her husband insists she rise and cook.
Not to nourish her, but to preserve the illusion of normalcy for himself.
Food, which everywhere else in Tampopo signifies reverence, care, and relationship, is inverted here. It becomes an instrument of denial. An insistence that nothing has changed. A refusal to witness her leaving. In this scene, nourishment is no longer love—it is erasure.
As she prepares the meal, he tells her that cooking will make her better.
She sways at the stove, one hand braced against the counter, the other trembling as it reaches for the pot. The room smells of rice and steam and something familiar enough to pretend this is an ordinary night. Her breath is shallow. Every movement costs her.
He sits at the table, waiting.
“Just like always,” he says, not looking at her—as if routine might hold her upright, as if the meal, completed, could seal the cracks already spreading through her body.
She cooks because that is what she has always done. Because standing here gives him something to believe in. Because if the food arrives, he doesn’t have to ask the question hovering between them.
When the bowl is set down, her hands linger on the rim for a moment too long. Then she folds—quietly, almost politely—as if slipping out of the room rather than leaving the world.
The food is still warm.
He eats.
He reframes her labor as healing, as duty, as something that might save her—when in truth, it only allows him to avoid what is already happening. When the family eats, he calls her “mom,” collapsing her identity into function: caregiver, nourisher, source. There is no space for her as a dying person with her own needs.
And when she finally collapses and dies, he keeps eating. Faster. More urgently. As if consumption itself might outrun grief. He refuses to stop, because to stop would be to acknowledge her death.
The symbolism is merciless. Appetite without presence becomes violence. Nourishment demanded instead of offered becomes erasure. Where Tampopo so often shows food as communion, this scene reveals its inverse: eating as a way of refusing to see what is gone.
It is one of the film’s hardest lessons—and one of its most honest.
That scene didn’t just disturb me — it stayed with me. What bothered me most wasn’t only that she died after cooking for her family, but how familiar the logic felt. The belief that if a woman just keeps giving, keeps feeding, keeps showing up, then everything will be okay. That her service is proof of love. That her exhaustion is irrelevant as long as the people around her are being sustained.
What landed hardest was the realization that no one stopped her. No one said, you don’t have to do this. No one asked what she needed. Her worth existed entirely in what she provided, not in her presence, her limits, or her life. And when she collapsed, the eating continued — faster, almost desperately — as if consumption itself could erase what had just been lost.
That recognition mirrored parts of my own life in a way I couldn’t ignore. The way being capable can quietly turn into being used. The way strength and generosity can train others not to notice when you’re depleted. The way love can become conditional on what you give rather than who you are. That’s why it landed so hard — not as metaphor, but as truth.
Eroticism as Attention, Not Indulgence
In the movie, eroticism follows the same logic as food — and that is precisely why it matters.
The vignette with whipped cream and salt on the body is not meant to arouse in a conventional sense. It is about taste crossing into intimacy. Salt heightens. Cream softens and carries. Together, they echo the same principles that govern the bowl of ramen: contrast, balance, restraint, attention.
The body becomes a surface for tasting rather than consuming. Pleasure is slow, deliberate, sensory — not rushed or devoured. What matters is not the act itself, but how it is approached: with focus, curiosity, and presence. This mirrors the film’s insistence that appetite — whether for food or for another person — is something to meet consciously, not conquer.
Placed alongside scenes of slurping noodles, apologizing to pork, or finishing every last drop of broth, the moment reinforces the film’s deeper argument: appetite is not something to suppress or indulge blindly. It is something to attend to.
The boundary between nourishment and intimacy quietly dissolves here. Both require timing, trust, vulnerability, and care. When attention is present, even something as simple as salt on skin becomes a form of communion.
This is why the scene isn’t an outlier — it’s a continuation. Tampopo keeps returning to the same truth from different angles: when we slow down, when we notice, when sensation is guided by awareness rather than impulse, ordinary acts become profound.
Eating. Touching. Loving.
The lovers passing a raw egg yolk from mouth to mouth create heat not through exposure, but through attention — breath held, timing precise, trust absolute. Sensuality here is not spectacle. It is presence.
And yet the film never romanticizes appetite blindly. Desire without attention becomes consumption. Desire met with care becomes sacred.
That distinction — again and again — is the point.
Age Is Not the Same as Wisdom
The old woman squeezing peaches in the market is one of the most unsettling moments in the film. She presses fruit until it bruises, touching food without intention to nourish, prepare, or share. The shop owner slaps her hand away — not gently, not ceremonially, but firmly — a boundary enforced by someone who understands that touch carries responsibility.
Later, the refined older man who first appears wise and patient is revealed as a trickster — impersonating someone else, stealing money, still trying to grab one last bite before arrest.
In Tampopo, the film dismantles the comforting idea that wisdom equals virtue. Slowness is not morality. Elegance is not purity. Even insight has appetite. Enlightenment does not erase desire — it makes us aware of it. Even wisdom leaves fingerprints.
What’s striking is that both of them are old. Age alone does not confer wisdom. What we’re watching is appetite without relationship. Sensation without care. The shadow of everything else the film reveres. Touch, when divorced from responsibility, curdles. And when the woman is seen — truly seen — she runs. Unconscious desire cannot survive awareness.
For the woman squeezing the peaches
Her lesson is about touch without care. She reaches for sensation with no intention to nourish, prepare, or share. Food, in this moment, is not relationship — it’s extraction. The shop owner’s slap isn’t cruelty; it’s correction. It says: if you touch, you are responsible for what you alter. Her flight when she is seen shows that unconscious desire cannot withstand awareness.
The lesson isn’t “don’t desire” — it’s that desire must be witnessed, bounded, and accountable. Appetite without relationship collapses.
For the refined older man
His lesson is about appearance without integrity. He moves slowly, speaks gently, wears the costume of wisdom. But refinement is not virtue, and patience is not proof of ethics. His final grasping — still wanting one more taste even as he’s exposed — reveals that appetite doesn’t disappear with age or insight.
The lesson here isn’t condemnation; it’s clarity. Enlightenment doesn’t erase desire. It makes us responsible for it. Wisdom, if it’s real, shows up in restraint, not aesthetics. Taken together The film refuses the fantasy that time civilizes desire on its own.
Age doesn’t redeem appetite — practice does. Care does. Presence does. Whether in a market, a kitchen, or a life, the moral line isn’t how old you are or how refined you appear, but whether your desire can stand being seen — and whether you’re willing to carry the consequences of your touch.
Mastery Is a Communal Act
What holds the film together — what makes it feel alive — is community. Tampopo does not become herself alone.
Me and My Gateway Girls
The Goddess Does Indeed Rock
Gorō isn’t a teacher in the formal sense. He doesn’t lecture or dominate. His role is steadier than that. He offers presence, safety, and discernment. He recognizes potential before it’s proven. While others bring technique, critique, or lineage, Gorō brings containment — the masculine principle of holding the space so becoming can happen.
He watches more than he speaks. He intervenes when necessary. He stands nearby while Tampopo learns, fails, practices, and grows. In many ways, he functions as the spine of the community that gathers around her: not the loudest force, but the stabilizing one.
The sensei. The truckers. The contractor from the bar fight. Each person arrives with a different gift: discipline, protection, feedback, lineage. Nourishment creates kinship. Learning is communal. Mastery is shared.
When the five men who helped her finally sit down to eat her ramen, the film reaches its quiet crescendo. Each man eats differently.
One slurps — instinctive, embodied, unapologetic.
One sips — careful, measured, attentive to nuance.
One pauses — reflective, letting the bowl speak before responding.
One studies — technical, evaluative, trained to notice balance and structure.
One devours — grateful, wholehearted, deeply hungry. None of them eat the same way, and none of them are wrong. What unites them is attention.
This, to me, is the clearest articulation of what we do with food. Nourishment is not received uniformly. A cook does not feed one kind of eater. We offer something shaped by discipline, repetition, and care, and then we release it.
We don’t control how it is met. We don’t demand a single response. We watch.
Tampopo stands behind the counter with nervous hands, holding herself back, witnessing.
Because the truth of the offering isn’t in praise or critique — it’s in the bowls.
One by one, every bowl is emptied. Different paths, same arrival. That’s how she knows. That’s how we know.
The film has trained us by now to notice how people eat. The music builds. Awareness builds. One by one, every bowl is emptied. Every last drop of broth gone. Faces soften. Satisfaction lands. Fulfillment arrives without a word.
She knows. We know. She did it.
Like Tampopo, I didn’t become a chef by declaring myself one. I became one through trial and error.
Through physical labor as much as intuition.
Through staying teachable.
Through wanting to be better without collapsing into inadequacy.
Through recognizing that mastery lives in the details — in the garnish placed last, in noticing what’s missing once everything else is already there.
The boar story is not about food — it’s about desire meeting mortality
The boar story in Tampopo refuses to let fulfillment become fantasy.
Its moral is simple and unsentimental:
Desire must be met while the body is able — because awareness alone is not enough.
The wild boar represents future appetite: a pleasure deferred, a moment imagined but not yet lived. Hunting it isn’t about conquest; it’s about readiness — being strong enough, present enough, alive enough to receive what you want. The boar exists in the realm of someday.
When the man tells the story as he is dying, he is naming what will never happen. He knows how the meat would taste. He knows how it should be eaten, and with whom. But knowledge arrives after capacity is gone.
That is the lesson.
Knowing is not the same as receiving
Tampopo keeps returning to this distinction:
knowing how to eat is not the same as eating imagining flavor is not the same as tasting understanding reverence is not the same as being able to receive it
The boar story says: do not postpone devotion. Appetite is not shameful — but it is time-bound.
Placed where it is, after mastery and triumph, the story delivers the film’s hardest truth: fulfillment does not protect you. Love does not buy more time. Skill does not grant extension.
And yet — attention still matters.
Why he tells a story instead of eating
Unable to eat, the man turns to language. Storytelling becomes his final act of appetite. When the body can no longer receive nourishment, meaning shifts forms.
He is seen. His desire is witnessed.
That is the film’s quiet mercy.
After triumph comes loss — and the film refuses to soften it
This scene arrives after success, after recognition. That placement matters.
Tampopo is unsentimental: mastery does not exempt you. Love does not delay death.
Still, attention dignifies the moment. She kneels with him. She listens. He is not alone.
The tragedy is not that he dies — it is that he knows exactly how he would have eaten that meal, and never will.
Uncomfortable truths
This story felt familiar not because of the loss, but because of its timing. How often understanding arrives only after the body has already lived the moment.
The lesson was never about holding on. It was about showing up — meeting life while it is still alive. Letting something matter without demanding permanence.
The boar is not meant to be possessed. It is meant to be met — while there is breath, strength, and time.
Why the film doesn’t soften this moment
Because Tampopo isn’t a fantasy about food.
It’s a meditation on impermanence.
Appetite can outlast the body. Imagination can survive capacity. Meaning is not erased by death — but it is cut short.
And still, attention matters.
Why this scene matters in the context of the whole film
Every other scene teaches us how to eat while we can. This one shows us what happens when we cannot.
If the opening scene says, “Look at the bowl. Inhale. Apologize to the pork,” this scene says, “One day, you will only remember how it tasted.”
And that’s why it hurts.
Because it’s true.
The Vignettes as a Moral Arc
What can seem like a series of disconnected sketches in Tampopo is actually a single, deliberate arc. Each vignette turns the same question slightly in the light: how do we meet appetite?
The early scenes show appetite without awareness — eating, desiring, consuming on impulse. These moments aren’t condemnations; they’re portraits of sleepwalking. The problem isn’t hunger or desire, but the absence of attention.
As the film unfolds, appetite slows. Instruction appears. Ritual emerges. Food is observed before it is eaten. Bodies are attended to rather than used. Humor sharpens into teaching, training the viewer to notice.
Midway through, appetite becomes relational. Desire meets intimacy, responsibility, and care. Nourishment is no longer solitary; it requires presence with another.
Then the film turns. Appetite meets its limits. The dying man who can only tell a story. The woman forced to cook as she collapses. Desire persists after capacity is gone. Awareness alone is shown to be insufficient.
The arc closes with return: a baby nursing. Appetite at its most innocent. No mastery, no instruction — just presence. Hunger → discipline → devotion → loss → renewal.
Seen this way, the vignettes aren’t interruptions; they are the story. Each asks the same quiet question:
Are you consuming — or are you attending?
By the end, the answer isn’t explained. It’s lived.
The film ends where life begins: with a baby nursing at its mother’s breast. The most innocent form of nourishment. What begins as instinct becomes ritual, mastery, culture — and then returns to innocence again, consciously.
The circle closes.
As I sat with it, the film unfolded like a quiet mirror, reflecting my life over the past year — shaped by labor, repetition, loss, and the slow arrival of clarity.
This movie feels like one of those moments where life leans in and says, Here. See this. This is for you.
The boar story became uncomfortably familiar — not because of the loss itself, but because of what it revealed about timing. About how easy it is to understand something only after the body has already lived it. I recognize that pattern in my own life: moments where love, connection, or possibility existed fully in the present, but only became clear once they had already passed through me. Not as regret. As learning.
What I see now is that the lesson was never about holding on. It was about showing up. Being present while the moment was still alive. Saying yes without demanding permanence. Letting something matter without needing to keep it.
Some relationships arrive not to be completed, but to teach presence — and then ask to be released once the lesson has landed.
That this realization arrived on the Winter Solstice feels less like coincidence and more like alignment. The longest night. The pause point. The inhale before light returns.
Capricorn understands this. Endurance. Structure. Lineage. Mastery earned through repetition. Not ease — continuation.
Now we begin to turn back toward the light. Not all at once. Minute by minute. Day by day.
That’s how real change happens. That’s how chefs are made. That’s how identity settles.
Watching Tampopo sent me back to my original ramen recipe from 2019 — not to reinvent it, but to finally give it the attention and reverence it deserved.
What I thought was finished was only the beginning.
This ramen is a reworked version of my 2019 recipe, and is now an act of attention rather than speed. Inspired by Tampopo, it’s built slowly, layer by layer, with reverence for process and the body that carries it.
A long-simmered vegetable broth forms the foundation, deepened with kombu, white miso, gochujang, and shio koji, where fermentation replaces force and time does the real work. Shiitake mushrooms and ginger anchor the base, while tofu is patiently browned and miso-glazed into something quietly substantial.
Finished Tampopo-style, the bowl is completed — not decorated — with menma made from simmered bamboo shoots, thinly sliced negi, nori, and crisp bean sprouts. Each garnish serves a purpose: texture, contrast, breath. Nothing is rushed. Nothing is accidental.
This is vegan ramen that doesn’t imitate richness — it earns it. Light, clear, and deeply satisfying, it’s meant to be eaten deliberately: inhale first, sip the broth, finish every last drop.
12–16 oz extra-firm tofu, pressed and cut into bite-size cubes
1 tbsp toasted sesame oil
2 tbsp white miso
1 tbsp vegan soy sauce
2 tbsp water
Noodles and Greens
12 oz somen, udon, or ramen noodles
4 heads baby bok choy, quartered lengthwise
1 Fresno chile, seeded and sliced lengthwise
Tampopo-Style Menma (Bamboo Shoots)
1 can bamboo shoots, drained and rinsed very well
1 tsp toasted sesame oil
½ cup water
2 tbsp vegan soy sauce
1 tbsp mirin
1½ tbsp shio koji (or 1 tbsp white miso if needed)
½ tsp sugar (optional)
Instructions
Make the Broth
Heat a Dutch oven over medium heat. Add 1 tbsp sesame oil.
Add sliced onion and cook slowly until soft and translucent, about 3–4 minutes.
Lower heat slightly and add garlic and ginger. Continue cooking until onions deepen to a rich golden color and everything smells warm and fragrant, about 3 more minutes.
Add shiitake mushrooms and cook until they soften and release their moisture, 1–2 minutes.
Pour in vegetable stock. Add kombu, mirin, and gochujang.
Bring just to a gentle simmer — never a hard boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer uncovered for 30–45 minutes.
Remove kombu. Stir in miso, soy sauce, and shio koji. Taste and adjust gently. Add black pepper if needed. Keep broth warm and quiet.
Prepare the Tofu
Heat a skillet over medium heat and add 1 tbsp sesame oil.
Add tofu cubes in a single layer. Cook undisturbed until lightly golden, then turn and continue cooking until browned on all sides, about 10 minutes total.
In a small bowl, mix miso, soy sauce, and water.
Lower heat slightly and carefully pour sauce over tofu. Stir gently and cook 1 more minute until fragrant and glazed. Remove from heat.
Tampopo-Style Menma (Bamboo Shoots)
Place bamboo shoots in a saucepan, cover with fresh water, and simmer 10 minutes. Drain.
Return bamboo to pan. Add sesame oil, water, soy sauce, mirin, koji, and sugar.
Simmer uncovered 20–30 minutes until liquid reduces and bamboo is glossy and deeply seasoned.
Cool in liquid. Refrigerate up to 5 days.
Assemble the Ramen
Bring broth back to a gentle simmer.
Add noodles and bok choy. Cover and cook, stirring once, until noodles are tender and bok choy just wilts, about 4 minutes.
Add tofu to the pot. Turn off heat. Let rest 30 seconds.
Final Garnishes
Negi (green onion), thinly sliced on a bias and soaked briefly in ice water
Nori, cut into thin strips or gently torn
Bean sprouts, blanched 30 seconds and shocked in cold water
To Finish the Bowl
Ladle ramen into warmed bowls. Add tofu and bok choy evenly. Place menma deliberately. Add a small nest of negi. Lean nori against the bowl. Finish with a pinch of sprouts and Fresno chile.
Pause. Inhale. Eat deliberately. Finish every last drop.
This is ramen as the film teaches it: not rushed, not ornamental, not abstract — but earned, embodied, and complete.
Notes
This is not fast ramen. The broth improves with time. If possible, make it a day ahead and reheat gently.
Do not boil the kombu. Bring it to a bare simmer, then remove — bitterness is the enemy of clarity.
Shio koji adds depth and softness without heaviness. If unavailable, white miso can substitute, but the fermentation note will be quieter.
The tofu is meant to be savory and grounding, not crispy like a snack. Brown gently and glaze briefly.
Menma should be tender and glossy, not crunchy. Let it rest in its liquid for full flavor.
Garnish deliberately. This is the final five percent — what turns a good bowl into a complete one.
Eat while hot, but not rushed. This ramen rewards presence.
Both broth and menma can be made ahead of time. Up to 1-2 days in advance which drops day-of-prep down to 30 minutes.
I love chili on a cold day! This chili was a favorite of ours until we adopted a vegan lifestyle. I felt so overwhelmed in the beginning that many recipes sat on the proverbial shelf. This recipe was one of them, until now!
I love soy curls! I had heard about them for several years, but I had never bought any. One day, I found myself craving an old favorite: the carne asada taco.
After perusing dozens of vegan recipes, I came across one that used soy curls. I bought them, and well, the rest is history. Since then, I’ve used them in making fajitas, Chili Verdes, and now, in this white bean chili.
My old recipe used chicken, of course, and white cheese. This new version uses soy curls and my béchamel sauce. I always keep a container of the sauce in my freezer, so that’s what I used. If you prefer a nut-free option, then soy cream is a great alternative. I added a bit of chili powder at the end, too, just for a bit of kick!
2 Tbsp chopped fresh cilantro, plus more for serving
Tortilla chips or strips, vegan sour cream, sliced avocado for serving (optional)
Instructions
In a medium bowl, add soy curls and cover with 32 oz. of vegetable stock. Let sit until soy curls have rehydrated, about 10 minutes. Set aside.
Warm a dutch oven over medium heat. When heated, add oil. When the oil is shimmering, add onion and sauté until onions are translucent, about 7-8 minutes.
When soy curls have rehydrated, use a slotted spoon and remove soy curls from stock (reserving stock). Add soy curls to the pan and sauté until brown (about 7-8 minutes). If the curls begin to stick, add stock 2 tablespoons at a time.
Add garlic, and sauté until fragrant—about 30 seconds.
Add spices and green chilis to the pan. Dry sauté for approximately 1-2 minutes, or until spices are fragrant.
Add remaining vegetable broth and deglaze the pan. (Stir the bottom of the pan and removed all fond)
Add white chili beans and corn. Stir well.
Cook chili until ingredients have warmed. About 15 minutes.
Add soy cream or béchamel sauce and stir until warmed through.
Check for seasoning and serve warm.
Top with vegan sour cream, avocados, and cilantro, diced onions, optional.
I’ve said it before, but the hardest part of going vegan was giving up cheese. So much so that I even created—and taught—a vegan cheese class!
One of my absolute favorites is this Vegan Queso Blanco. It’s unbelievably delicious and incredibly easy to make. I put it on everything—from enchiladas to mac-n-cheese—but honestly, most of the time you’ll find me hovering over a plate of warm tortilla chips, dipping until my heart’s content.
The best part? This recipe is 100% plant-based, oil-free, and completely cholesterol-free. Serve it piping hot, and watch it disappear in minutes!
It also reheats beautifully: just add a tablespoon or two of plant-based milk and microwave on medium heat for 30 seconds. Give it a good stir and add another 30 seconds if needed until it’s perfectly warm and melty again.
This oil-free vegan queso is ready in less than 15 minutes! So yummy, you can add as much or as little heat as you want by skipping the jalapeños or doubling them up! Enjoy!
Ingredients
Scale
1 cup raw cashews, soaked overnight, if not using high powered blender
1 onion, diced
2 garlic cloves, peeled
1 cup vegetable stock
1 cup plant-based milk (I use Oatly oat milk)
3 tbsp nutritional yeast
1 tbsp lemon juice
1 tsp cumin
1 tsp garlic powder
1 tsp tapioca starch (for a gooey consistency)
1–2 tsp salt
1 (4 oz) can pickled jalapeños with juice
1 can tomatoes with green chili’s, like Rotel
Dash turmeric for color, if desired
Instructions
Warm a medium-size skillet over medium heat. Add 2 tbsp vegetable stock and onions. Sauté onions until done and translucent, about 7-8 minutes. Remove onions from pan, and add to blender. Add all remaining ingredients except the Rotel tomatoes, if using. Blend until very smooth. If using a Vitamix, about 45 seconds on high.
Transfer to a saucepan and put on the stove over medium-low heat. Heat until desired consistency, continually stirring so as not to burn the bottom.
Taste and add extra salt if desired. Pour vegan queso into a serving bowl and stir in the 1/4 cup chopped pickled jalapeños and drained can of Rotel if using. Garnish and serve.
Notes
Keep leftovers in an airtight container in the fridge about 5 days. When reheating, add additional unsweetened plant-based milk, if desired, to thin to desired consistency.
You can use chicken broth instead of vegetable if you’re not vegan.
Some things are just meant to be together—peanut butter & jelly, socks & shoes, Kurt & Goldie… and cucumbers & dill.
Crisp, cool, and refreshingly simple, cucumbers have been a staple in American kitchens for centuries. Brought to North America by European settlers in the late 16th century, the cucumber is actually native to India and is one of the world’s oldest cultivated crops—around 3,000 years old!
Belonging to theCucurbitaceaefamily (hello, watermelon, muskmelon, pumpkin, and squash), cucumbers are 96% water and can be up to 20 degrees cooler on the inside than the outside. Basically, they’re nature’s air conditioning. Plus, a half cup of sliced cucumber has only eight calories—talk about guilt-free crunch.
As a kid, cucumbers meant salad. These days, I’ve used them as crudités, turned them into pickles, slapped them on puffy eyes… but until recently, I’d never made them themain eventin a soup.
Here’s the deal: cucumbers aren’t just for spa water. They’re surprisingly versatile. Did you know you can also use cucumbers to:
Deter slugs by tossing diced ones in an aluminum pan (the reaction creates a scent pests hate)
Help with digestion and constipation, thanks to their water and fiber
Fight off tapeworms (they contain erepsin, an enzyme that targets parasites)
Cure hangovers—with B vitamins, electrolytes, and natural sugars
Reduce cellulite—phytochemicals in cucumbers tighten collagen
Promote long, strong hair (they’re packed with silica, calcium, and sulfur)
Even clean toddler graffiti—cucumbers can erase crayon marks from walls!
Now let’s talk about cucumber’s BFF:Dill.
More than just a flavorful herb, dill is packed with health benefits. It’s rich in flavonoids, which can help reduce the risk of heart disease and stroke, and it may even lower LDL (“bad”) cholesterol. According to our ever-reliable friend WebMD, dill:
Regulates blood sugar (thanks to eugenol)
Promotes digestion
Strengthens bones
Fights infections
Even helps remedy insomnia
Add in some heart-healthy walnuts and a touch of spice, and you’ve got yourself something that feels like amagic elixir. This chilled soup has roots in Eastern Europe, similar to the Turkishçorbaknown ascacık(pronounced “jah-jick”), a yogurt-based dish beloved throughout the Mediterranean.
I tried a few different versions, but this one—with red pepper flakes and a hint of tarragon—was the winner. Creamy, tangy, herby, and just a little spicy.
If you make it, tag me—I want to know what you think! 🥒💚
I have developed a habit of watching all the movies nominated for Academy Awards. The Brutalist was surreal, Wicked was thoughtful and empowering, but The Substance was truly eye-opening. I was excited to see Demi Moore in a new film, as it had been a while since I’d seen her in a movie. Her nomination for Best Actress and Golden Globe win for the movie was also fantastic.
Although Demi didn’t win the Oscar (Mikey Madison won for Anora), her portrayal of Elisabeth Sparkle is raw, tragic, and painfully beautiful. The film’s narrative revolves around Elisabeth’s struggle to age in Hollywood while remaining relevant. This struggle is not unique to her or Hollywood but is emblematic of the societal pressures faced by women all over the world. The Substance takes a nose dive into themes surrounding youth, beauty, self-esteem, and self-loathing. This movie still haunts me. My friend Monica and I have talked about it for weeks.
The Substance Coralie Fargeat (2024) – The Shining Stanley Kubrick (1980) The Shining Stanley Kubrick (1980) – The Substance Coralie Fargeat (2024)
The Substance had so many Easter eggs that pointing them out would take days. Still, the giant photographs of Elisabeth in the hallway with a carpet that resembles Kubrick’s The Shining says everything without saying a word. Other nods include the Black Swan, The Fly, Carrie, and Alien. All refer to a normal person’s slow, maddening transformation into a monster.
For many women, beauty is a commodity bestowed at birth or paid for. When I say “beauty is a commodity,” it means that beauty, particularly female beauty, can be bought, sold, or exchanged for economic value, and baby…sex sells. Don’t get me started on 72-year-old Bill Belichick and his 24-year-old girlfriend.
The film’s powerful critique challenges the traditional notion that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and most of the time, it’s men beholding. Meanwhile, women are inundated with beauty products, botox, lip injections, boob jobs, nose jobs, fake hair, fake lashes…the list goes on and on. With its haunting narrative, the movie serves as a powerful critique of the societal beauty standards that often reduce women to nothing more than their physical appearance.
In the movie, Elisabeth is influenced by these standards, wishing to remain young. She takes “the substance,” and then her younger self, Sue, emerges. They must change places every seven days. But soon, Sue wishes to prolong her youthful transformation and begins stealing fluid from Elisabeth to stay young. In doing that, she causes Elisabeth to start rotting. But they can’t survive separately, as Sue soon finds out. She took and took until there was nothing left. The scene where Elisabeth is getting ready for a date made me cry.
The monster at the end shows how and why women go to great lengths to be beautiful. What drives them to pursue beauty turns them into nothing short of monsters—women who deface themselves don’t look human anymore. Seeing Elisabeth wear a printed copy of her old face and smeared lipstick was heart-wrenching. It was a tragic reminder that maybe her old face wasn’t that bad.
The movie’s quote, “Remember, you are one,” starkly reminds her that her young and older selves are the same people. How much of her older beauty was she willing to sacrifice to remain youthful? The Substance is genuinely a work of art. It is existential, graphic, provocative, and, like The Brutalist, brutal.
More importantly, it is a wake-up call for women. We are so much more than what you see on the outside. My mother always says, “Beauty is as beauty does.” We have come so far thanks to the suffragists, feminists, and brave women who have fought for a place for us beyond mopping the kitchen floor up to our necks in diapers or being relegated to working behind the make-up counter at Macy’s.
My sisters, we cannot go backward. There is nothing wrong with taking care of ourselves. Myself, I’m a lipstick feminist, but I will never get fillers, botox, or plastic surgery. Demi’s transformation, her decision to dissolve her fillers and embrace a raw vegan diet, made my heart happy. None of us want to see our bodies break down. Physical decline, vision changes, skin changes, weight gain, hormonal shifts, and many more can be slowed down by exercise and the foods we eat.
A vegan diet, including raw “living” foods, may help slow the aging process at a molecular level, potentially reducing the estimated ages of various organ systems. Raw plant-based foods are rich in antioxidants, which can help protect cells from damage caused by free radicals, a process linked to aging. Vegan diets are naturally lower in inflammatory foods, which can contribute to overall health and potentially reduce signs of aging.
Raw vegan foods’ antioxidants and anti-inflammatory properties may contribute to healthier, younger-looking skin. We are what we put into our bodies. And isn’t it better to extract life from plants than from ourselves?
Make the pad Thai sauce. In a small bowl or jar, combine the plant-butter butter, coconut aminos (or tamari/soy sauce), rice vinegar, lime juice, tamarind paste, garlic, ginger, red pepper flakes, salt, and pepper, mixing to combine. Set aside.
Cut off the ends of the zucchini and run through a spiralizer, or buy pre-spiraled zucchini.
Add the shredded carrots, chopped bell peppers, and bean sprouts to a large bowl.
Pour sauce over the veggies and mix well to combine.
Add the cilantro and green onion and mix one more time.
Be careful not to overmix.
Top with some chopped peanuts and more cilantro to serve.
Enjoy!
Notes
After spiralizing, I salt the zucchini very well in a colander and let them sit for about 15 minutes. I give them a quick rinse to remove the salt and dry it on a paper towel. This allows the zucchini’s high water content to drain and keeps the sauce from getting runny.
You don’t have to do this, but if you have leftovers, you may notice the sauce has been watered down and the veggies are not as crispy.
If I could have three different careers, I would choose cooking, writing, and designing in no particular order. Or all three? The joy I felt creating the interior for my mid-century Treehouse was unparalleled. I carefully chose furniture and artwork indicative of the Dutch Modern and Eames eras, pouring my love for design into every detail.
A picture of my “CH07 Shell Chair”.
Charles & Ray Eames Photo via: Wikipedia
The emphasis on abstraction, simplicity, and functionalism in Dutch Modernism has significantly shaped my design choices. I deeply admire the minimalist aesthetic it promotes. Minimalism, as a philosophy, encourages us to focus on what’s important and eliminate distractions, a concept known as simple or intentional living.
The focus on simple designs with minimal decorative elements, clean lines, and open spaces aligns with my design philosophy. I also appreciate Dutch Modernism’s eco-friendly approach. Most furniture pieces are designed with practical use in mind, prioritizing comfort and usability. And some…just look really cool.
“Manner of Gerrit Reitveld” Steltman Chair-1970’s Dutch Modern
Garret Rietveld, a Dutch architect and furniture designer, led the De Stijl art movement. This movement, which was a reaction to World War I, was based on the hope that art could lead to social and spiritual renewal. We could use some of that today, eh?
Many people, including Charles and Ray Eames, two of my favorite designers, were notably influenced by the Dutch Modern De Stijl, or “The Style” movement. Born in St. Louis, Missouri, designer and architect Charles Eeams made groundbreaking contributions to the world of architecture, furniture design, industrial design, manufacturing, and the photographic arts. Charles and Ray met at Cranbrook Academy of Art, where Charles taught design and Ray was a student. His wife Ray had previously studied with the venerable and incredibly influential painter and teacher Hans Hofmann. I could do a whole post on Hofmann (and I may).
Influenced by cubism, Hofmann (right) became friends with Picasso, Georges Braque, and Henri Matisse in Paris. Photo Via: WikiArt
Charles Eames, a true visionary and ardent admirer of Frank Lloyd Wright, coined the phrase, “The details are in the details.” His influence on my life’s philosophy is profound. Can I get an amen?
To me, this is not just a saying but a way of life that permeates everything I do, reflecting my passion and commitment to what I care about. When I embark on a project, whether cooking, writing, or designing, I invest my heart and soul into it. I believe that the essence of anything remarkable lies in the details, and I always strive to bring this depth and thoughtfulness to my work.
So, like a proper design nerd, I eagerly awaited Pantone’s announcement of the color of the year. Pantone, a company that sets the color trends for industries such as fashion, design, and manufacturing, never fails to surprise. And this year, they did not disappoint with their choice of the most exquisite shade of brown, ‘Mocha Mousse.’ And I love it!
In general, I am not one for sweets. You’ll likely notice that I have a few desserts listed, but not many. I have more of a savory palate. This recipe is a rare exception. The creamy mousse and the light, airy texture of the cake make you almost feel like you’re eating a cloud. I like this recipe as it’s a take on a classic tiramisu. Adding the slightly bitter espresso cuts some of the sweetness that tends to be too much for someone like me.
I thought about making a gluten-free version, but the gluten is needed to keep the cake moist and fluffy. This cake is all about texture. It is 100% vegan and uses no eggs, which is kind of a big deal in baking. There are a lot of good dairy substitutes, but eggs are not as easy. I haven’t tried JustEgg, but if anyone does, reach out and let me know your thoughts.
This cake uses applesauce as a substitute for eggs. Plain yogurt works; too-1/2 cup of yogurt is the equivalent of 2 eggs and the equivalent of the 2/3 cups of applesauce in this recipe. For the mousse, I used Navitas cocao powder. It’s good quality and Regenerative Organic certified, meaning it meets the world’s highest standard for organic agriculture with stringent requirements for soil, animal welfare, and social fairness. And you can pretty much find it anywhere. For the plant-based cream, I used Country Crock Plant Cream. Right now, they have a $1.50 off coupon on their website.
For the top of the cake, since it’s a mocha espresso after all, I thought it would be fun to do a take on a mocha latte using white royal icing and pipe a little latte art. This is certainly not necessary, but it made for a pretty picture. If you are adventurous and ambitious enough, this is a cute and simple YouTube video about doing something like this. (FYI, I used a chopstick instead of toothpicks to draw the design.) Otherwise, I might recommend shaving a bar of vegan chocolate over the top or simply dusting cocoa on the top with a fine mesh sieve.
This recipe is for a 2-layer cake. It’s a bit of work but well worth it! You can decorate with cocao nibs, chocolate sprinkles, or dust with cocao powder.
Ingredients
Scale
2 cups (260g) all-purpose flour
3/4 cup (60g) cocao powder
1 ½ tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
½ tsp salt
1 1/2 cups (300g) granulated sugar
2/3 cup (170g) unsweetened apple sauce
2 tsp vanilla extract
½ cup oil + 2 tbsp (115g)
1 cup (245g) plant-based milk
1 tbsp apple cider vinegar
3/4 cup hot water
1 tsp instant espresso powder
Vegan Chocolate Mousse:
1/2cupvegan semi-sweet chocolate
1cupraw cashewssoaked for at least 15 minutes in hot water
15ouncecan full-fat coconut milk
2tablespoonscocoa powder
1/4teaspoonvanilla extract
1/3cupsugar
1/4teaspoonsalt
1tablespooncoffee from above
Chocolate Ganache:
6ozgood quality dark chopped chocolate (vegan)
1cupfull-fat coconut milk (firm, creamy part only, at room temperature)
Instructions
Chocolate 2 -layer cake:
Preheat the oven to 350F and spray (2) 8″ cake pans with nonstick spray and line the bottoms with parchment paper.
Mix together the milk and vinegar and set aside to curdle (making a vegan buttermilk).
Whisk together the flour, cocao powder, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a medium bowl and set aside.
In a large bowl, either whisking by hand or with an electric mixer, combine the sugar, apple sauce, oil, and vanilla.
On the side, mix together the hot water and espresso powder. Set aside.
To the sugar mixture, alternate adding the milk and dry ingredients, starting and ending with the dry ingredients. Stop and scrape down the bowl about halfway through.
Once that’s smooth, slowly mix in the hot espresso. Now the batter will be very thin.
Pour the batter into the cake pans and bake for 30-35 minutes, or until a toothpick in the center comes out clean.
Allow the cakes to cool in the pans for 20 minutes, then remove from the pans and let them completely cool at room temperature before frosting. To speed up this process, you can pop them into the fridge.
Chocolate Mousse:
Add the chocolate to a skillet with about 1/4 cup of the coconut milk over medium heat and mix well. Once the milk starts boiling, the chocolate will start melting. Switch off the heat.
Continue to mix until the chocolate is completely smooth. You can also microwave the chocolate in bursts of 30 seconds. Once it starts to melt on the edges, whisk well until all of the chocolate is melted.
Add the cashews, remaining coconut milk, cocao powder, vanilla, sugar, salt, and melted chocolate to a blender and a tablespoon of the coffee, then blend. Blend it for one minute, then let the blender sit for 5 to 10 minutes so the cashews can soak more moisture. Blend again for 30 seconds. Then, wait a minute, blend again for 30 seconds, and repeat until the mixture is smooth.
Refrigerate for 15 minutes to thicken.
Taste and adjust the sweetness and flavor if you like. You can add more cocao powder, coffee, vanilla, or sugar and blend well after adding them.
Ganache:
Place a bowl over a small saucepan of simmering water (a double boiler). Add chocolate and allow to melt, stirring frequently. (Alternatively, you can melt the chocolate in a small bowl in the microwave.)
Remove bowl from heat, and allow chocolate to cool slightly.
Add room-temperature thick coconut milk and allow the mixture to sit for a minute for the temperatures to assimilate.
Stir or whisk gently to combine cream and chocolate.
Use immediately as a drizzle over cake.
Assemble:
Only frost the cake once the layers have completely cooled.
Spread about 1 cup of mousse between each cake layer (a small offset spatula is my favorite tool). Once all layers are stacked, place the naked cake in the fridge to set. Otherwise, the cake will slide around when trying to frost the sides. Chill for 20 minutes.
Once firm, remove the cake and plop the mousse on top of it (yes, all of it). Spread it out towards the sides and let it hang over the edges. Spread that overhang down the sides to the bottom of the cake. The sides don’t have to be perfect, but make sure the cake is completely covered.
Use your offset spatula or a spoon to create the swoops and swirls around the cake. Sprinkle with your favorite toppings.
Enjoy!
Notes
Sifting flour and cocao powder breaks down lumps and aerates the ingredients, ensuring a lighter, more consistent texture and an easier batter.
