Comfort

Earlier this month, I had a Monday in-person business meeting scheduled in another state. My mother happens to live in that destination city, so I figured I would fly out a few days early to spend the weekend with her before my Monday meeting and Tuesday return trip. I have learned how to make work, work!

My mother is well into her eighties and does not cook much but when she heard I was coming to town she wanted to cook for me. As I sat at my mom’s kitchen table like I have so many times before. The room looked exactly the same as it always has—familiar curtains, the soft hum of the refrigerator and all of it’s magnets, and that unmistakable scent of something delicious wafting through the air. Although I have never lived in that place as mom and dad had the house built when they became empty nesters, there is something about walking into her kitchen now, as an adult, that hits differently. It is not just about the food—it is about the feeling.

My mom, now in her later years, still moves with purpose in her kitchen. She knows where every utensil lives, exactly how long something needs to simmer, and the precise moment to add “just a pinch” of her secret seasoning. I watched her work, realizing that these small motions are muscle memory built over a lifetime of cooking for her family. Now her family consists of just me. She did not ask me what I wanted her to cook. Moms know!

When she finally said it was time to eat, there it was—an honest-to-goodness home-cooked meal, made with love. Not fancy, not fussy, just the kind of food that wraps you in warmth and makes the world slow down for a while. As I took that first bite, I was reminded that this was not just dinner. This was a gift. A labor of love from a mother who still finds joy in nourishing her child, no matter how many years have passed.

A mom’s home-cooked meal is wrapped in layers of familiarity, nostalgia, and love. Even as an adult, it is a sensory time machine—one bite can transport you back to childhood dinners, the comfort of home, and the feeling of being cared for without having to ask.

There is also something psychological at play: when you eat your mom’s cooking, it is not just your stomach that feels full, it is your sense of belonging. She knows your tastes without asking, seasons food in a way your palate has been trained to love since you were little and serves it with care no restaurant can replicate.

It is nourishment for the body, but also for the heart. And that combination is hard to beat.

We prayed, we ate, we laughed, drank wine, reminisced and we lingered long after the plates were clean. Sitting there, I realized that someday I will look back on this meal—not just for the flavors, but for the tenderness of the moment. These are the kinds of memories that last far longer than any recipe ever could. Because a home-cooked meal from your mom is never just about the food. It is about love served on a plate.

I do not know how many more home-cooked meals I will be blessed to have from my elderly mother, but I will savor each one like the treasure it is. Because when Mom cooks for me, she is feeding more than my body. She is feeding my sense of belonging.

In a world that moves fast and demands so much, her kitchen is still a place where I can simply be her child.

It is not just food. It is comfort. It is care. It is home—served on a plate.

And maybe that is the lesson—life’s most comforting moments often come from the simplest places. A meal at the kitchen table. A laugh shared across the plates. A familiar voice saying, “come eat, it’s ready.” These are the moments worth noticing, worth holding close, and worth treasuring… because one day, they will be the memories we carry with us forever.

I love you mom!

Take care of yourself and each other!