Typically, I would add salads into the menus because it’s still hot, and I’m not ready for pumpkins and apples. However, I can’t because of Cyclosporin, and I just finished a whole summer where we embraced seasonal ingredients, and I’m tired of them. We did berry galettes, poached salmon, grilled chicken, compotes, salsas, and so many breads. It was all delicious.

Early summer tomatoes on display at a bustling farmers market.

Seasonal cooking is important and wonderful. When it’s hot cool vegetables help keep our body cool, and when it’s cool outside heartier fruits and vegetables plus warmer cooking methods helps our body start to slow down. Right now we know change is coming, but some of us aren’t ready, and yet we’re tired of our current menu.

Maybe this is the season and moment of the in between. Maybe the end of August and beginning of September is a season all on its own. Bold flavors of summer slightly toasted and roasted, sautéed and simmered. Instead of raw and fresh they’re cooked to bring out a new and different flavor. That feels both summery and comforting.

On my menu for this in between stage is roasted heirloom tomato tart, charred corn also know as street corn, chicken, black beans and rice bowl, roasted asparagus, lemon and Parmesan pasta and banana chocolate chip muffins. These have those delicious summer flavors, but more intensified. The intensity gives them a cozy feeling that fills you up and nourishes you from the inside out.

Summer corn getting ready to be charred.

I sat at the computer for a long time as I was creating this menu and thinking about the cooking skills that went with them. Because I’m burnt out from the lack of routine from summer, planning daily activities, and my kids using screens way more than is appropriate. I was engrossed in planning for the first day of school, navigating teachers my kids didn’t want and new buildings with uncertainty as to where class is being held. It’s all coming to a head and we’re once again in the cross roads of no schedule with over scheduled from school, sports, work and life. I constantly think how am I going to work through these challenges without completely depleting myself.  We just do.

There’s an auto pilot that switches on and we keep moving forward. It’s the same as when the first winter wind blasts and just like it had never stopped we reach for our thicker socks, warmer sweater and bigger coat. We complain a little but we don’t have a choice, we just keep moving forward.

I’m reminding myself this as I write, we’re on autopilot and we just keep moving forward as time keeps slipping away. So now looking at this new middle ground of recipes I’m reminded that it’s actually a season all of itself, not the typical spring, summer and fall, but the season of change.  Maybe we could call it The Keep Going Season or Augusting. Both indicate that we’re just doing it and making the best of it.

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Baked rigatoni loaded with olives for my boys when they were little.

So my menu of roasted summer leftovers feels perfect for the season of Augusting. Good luck to all of you who are enjoying those last few long days, cookouts,  and plunges in the lake. For those of you who are pouring yourself a cup of tea, cozying up to a blanket and a good show, and packing lunches for your children happy Augusting, we’re almost to fall, it will be here before we know it. Embrace this In between season.

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I want my cooking space clean and ready for tomorrow’s mess, I hate walking into yesterday’s chaos. Every evening I scrub to get the kitchen back to zero. I love giving myself and my students a fresh start. A clean place for baking filled with flour, sugar, and yeast.

I pulled up my blanket, silenced my phone, and pressed play on the final season of The Bear. After years of working in the restaurant industry, I found myself avoiding kitchen books, cooking shows, and restaurant movies. Until The Bear, they felt like inviting PTSD back into my life without a life raft.

When the first trailer was released, there was a clip of Carmy igniting the stove and swirling food through a pan. I recognized that look immediately. It was the look on his face that reminded me why I fell in love with cooking and that it was time to revisit some old restaurant wounds. At 45 I’m finally strong enough to face them.

As a chef and a business owner who’s constantly trying to be one step ahead and think about the next class. Every morning before my thirty-five students walk through the door, I want the kitchen to be ready for them.

There’s a scene in The Bear where Carmy is on the floor scrubbing the restaurant. He’s exhausted, but he keeps going. When I watched that scene, I saw myself. Every day I pay attention to everything because I know my students are about to walk into that space. I want them to feel the love. They may never be able to put a finger on why it feels so cozy, but I do.

For years after leaving the restaurant industry, anything that took me back into a professional kitchen reminded me of painful memories. The pressure was relentless. The moment that still gets me is the damn ticket machine that never stopped squawking. The endless stream of orders is so true to life that I instinctively reach for the fast-forward button. Beneath the chaos is the reason I became a chef. The Bear reminded me that I never stopped loving food, I stopped loving working in restaurants.

Thankfully, my cooking school isn’t a restaurant, but it has its own beautiful intensity. Every morning, eager faces look to me for guidance. They trust me to teach them something they never imagined they could make on their own. That responsibility matters to me.

The floor matters because it gives me clarity. When the room is clean, I can see the one piece of dough still stuck to the concrete. I know exactly where to focus. At the end of the day, when everything is covered in flour, dishes are piled up, and clutter is everywhere, I don’t know where to begin. Everything competes for my attention, and suddenly something is missed.

I’ve realized my mind works the same way. When everything is in order, I can finally see what actually needs to be done. I can take a breath and prepare for tomorrow instead of feeling overwhelmed by today. Running a business is full of invisible work. The funny thing about invisible work is that people rarely notice the task itself. They notice how it makes them feel.

One of my favorite examples is Trader Joe’s. Employees spend time turning every label so it faces the customer. It’s a surprisingly time-consuming job, and it’s easy to wonder if it really matters. I definitely think it does. Customers don’t walk in admiring perfectly aligned cans of tomatoes. They feel the vacation mood the owners intended.

When I worked in restaurants, I would send out a delicious plate of food. It was so satisfying, but the moment was gone the second they finished. Guests finished their meal, paid the check, and went home with a memory.

My cooking school is different. We’re making food daily but what I’m hoping to build are habits that will stay with my students after they’ve forgotten my recipes. The classes are about teaching them to care about the food they prepare, respecting the tools and the space they work in. Most importantly I want them to understand that little things can have a big impact.

When Carmy stepped away and entrusted the restaurant to his sous chef, I didn’t see someone giving up. I saw someone passing something on. He had spent years teaching, correcting, and believing in the people around him. By the time he walked away, they weren’t following his recipes at all. The staff cared about the work. They cared about the space. His team had made it their own.

I’m assuming teachers hope for the same thing, that their students carry the habit of caring with them. That one day, without even realizing where they learned it, they’ll wipe the counter, scrape the dough off the floor, or leave a kitchen a little better than they found it because caring has become part of who they are.

I started this feeling like the invisible work went unnoticed, but I don’t think that’s true. I think it’s that people may never know who scraped the dough off the floor, turned every label forward, or stayed late resetting the room, but they feel it. They walk into a space that feels calm. They feel welcomed and can’t wait to run through the door.

That’s what we’re missing. we’re so focused on the big moments that we’ve forgotten how much the small ones when done repeatedly and with other small tasks can make a big impact. Taking a little more time to do something right doesn’t always stand out and it rarely goes viral on social media, but it does make a difference.

Tomorrow morning, I can’t wait to scrape the last bit of dough off the floor and I’m excited to welcome another group of students into my kitchen. They won’t know about the blood sweat and tears that went into making it perfect.

They’ll tie on an apron, wash their hands, and ask, “What are we making today?” and that’s exactly how I want it. If I’ve done my job, they won’t pay attention to the clean floor. They’ll remember how it felt to walk into a place where someone believed in them.

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I love a good pasta dish, and yet I never have the exact pasta a recipe calls for. To that I say, use what you’ve got. That weird, misshapen pasta hiding in the back of the pantry? Go ahead and use it. I won’t look. Let’s be honest, it’s not going to match my vision, but that’s the thing about cooking. I’m offering a recipe and some suggestions. After that, it’s up to you to make it delicious.

I have my fun and comical version below, and the recipe card farther down is the regular version. In all seriousness, this recipe is delicious. I absolutely love it, and it’s the kind of meal that’s meant to be shared with friends.

Enjoy.

Serves 2

Ingredients

• 3 cloves garlic, sliced. YES! It would be better if you peeled fresh garlic rather than buying pre-chopped garlic packed in oil.

• 1 cup baby tomatoes. Whatever tomatoes are about to go bad are perfect.

• 2 tablespoons olive oil, plus 2 tablespoons. If you don’t like it by itself, it’s not going to get better in the pan.

• ¼ teaspoon kosher salt. PLEASE buy a box of kosher salt. Get rid of the table salt. PLEASE. I BEG YOU.

• 1 box pappardelle pasta. Any pasta will do, even the weird shapes you bought for Halloween and never used.

• ¼ cup chopped Italian parsley. There is a difference between Italian parsley and curly parsley. Don’t buy curly.

• ¼ cup pasta water (optional). If you forgot to save it, it’s fine.

• ½ cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese. Please, not the Kraft green can. I beg you.

• 2 fresh burrata mozzarella balls, cut in half. Splurge. It’s worth it!!!!! I know it’s a lot.

Directions

1. Heat a large sauté pan over medium-high heat. If you can hold your hand over the pan and it feels hot without making you pull away in fear of getting burned, it’s the perfect temperature.

2. Add 2 tablespoons of olive oil to the pan and let it heat. I hear you. Olive oil isn’t supposed to be used over super high heat. If you’re that person, use whatever high-heat oil you have in the house, avocado, canola, grapeseed, whatever works.

3. Add the garlic and salt. Sauté until the garlic is soft, lightly browned, and aromatic. If it’s getting too dark, the pan is too hot. Turn the heat down and move the pan to a cooler burner.

4. Add the tomatoes and cook until the skins loosen and the tomatoes soften. I hear you. You’re wondering if you’re doing it right. As long as the tomatoes are in the pan and you’ve swirled them through the garlic and oil, you’re good.

5. Stir in the parsley and reduce the heat. We’re moving on to the pasta. Yes, you can even turn the burner off completely if you’re nervous. I got you.

6. Bring a pot of water to a boil and add ½ teaspoon of salt. Salting the water is optional. I have a lot of people on social media who yell at me to salt it, so here we are.

7. Add the pappardelle and cook until al dente, just a little undercooked with a slight chew. Follow the cooking time on your box. Just don’t leave your pasta sitting in the water while the strainer hangs out in the sink.

8. Reserve ¼ cup of the pasta water, then drain the pasta and discard the rest of the water. Whoops? Just leave it out.

9. Add the pasta to the pan a little at a time, gently folding it into the garlic, tomatoes, and olive oil. YES, this actually makes a difference. Slowly adding it helps coat everything.

10. Add the pasta water and let it simmer. Again, whoops? Leave it out...or add a splash of cream. Yummmm.

11. Fold everything together and grate ¼ cup of fresh Parmesan over the pasta. Mix until combined. NOT the Kraft. I see you out there telling me it’s okay. It is NOT!

12. Season with salt and pepper. I hear you. You don’t like pepper. Leave it out. It’s fine.

13. Transfer the pasta to a serving dish. Place the burrata on top and season it with salt and pepper. Grate on a little more Parmesan, garnish with the remaining parsley, and serve. Cue mouth watering.

14. Serve, share, and enjoy! Or eat the whole thing yourself and make the rest of your family buttered pasta.

1 cup all-purpose flour (because we should all have it)
1 cup stone-ground cornmeal (buy new, I promise yours isn’t good anymore)
3/4 cup granulated sugar (NOT TRADER JOE’S sugar)
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder (It’s cheap, get a new one, and no, this is not the one in the orange box)
1/2 teaspoon baking soda (this is the one in the orange box, and no, don’t use the one from your refrigerator)
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt (kosher please, get rid of table salt, it flattens your baked goods)
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted (splurge, good butter makes a difference, buy Challenge or Land O’Lakes)
1/4 cup vegetable oil (this is the key to keeping cornbread soft)
1 cup milk, room temperature (whole milk is the most flavorful, but use what you’ve got)
3 large eggs, room temperature (large, not JUMBO!)
Add cheddar cheese, jalapeño, and chilies (only if you’re brave)

Directions

1. Preheat the oven to 350°F. (Are you sure your oven is actually hitting 350°F?)

2. Stir the flour, cornmeal, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt together in a large bowl. (These are dry ingredients.)

3. Mix in the butter and oil. (These are fats.)

4. Stir in the milk and eggs and mix until combined. (Sure, you can mix the eggs before you mix them in if your OCD needs you to.)

5. Pour into a nonstick ½-sheet pan or muffin pans.

6. Bake until firm and the edges pull away from the pan, about 35 minutes (unless you’re baking muffins, then it’s 18–22 minutes).

7. Cool the cornbread for 30 minutes.

8. Cut into 12 squares and serve (or whatever shape they end up being—I know you just needed a nibble, and it threw the rest of the pan off!).

The recipe card below has the basic version.

I drive out my gate and slam on my brakes as a child darts across the street to the preschool just feet away. I make a left turn across multiple lanes of traffic where trash trucks are lined up, blocking the right lane so I cannot move over. A bus pulls in just as I am about to turn and I miss the light.

A half mile later I reach another intersection where what feels like the entire local elementary school is crossing with guards holding traffic. Another half mile and I am by the high school where kids are gathered everywhere, moving in every direction, like a hive that has been stirred.

By the time I reach the grocery store, the only parking spot is gone, and a group of elderly neighbors are gathered nearby playing a makeshift game of chess against a wall while people watch. As I walk inside, I am asked to sign a petition for whatever the topic of the day is. It is only 8:30 in the morning and I already feel like the day has been full.

Living in Los Angeles has its perks. You can find your people. There is always something happening, from museum openings to new restaurants. But after living here for two decades, those things fade into the background. What matters most is whether I can get errands done, work finished, kids picked up, and the dogs walked. It is not a complaint, just the reality of life in a big city. It is busy.

I still love Los Angeles, but I often dream of emptiness, nature, and wind moving through trees. Life doesn’t slow down on its own. It keeps stacking sound, motion, and responsibility on top of each other until even a simple grocery run feels like a full day.

Camping isn’t a trend, but it should be. Traveling is too expensive, but we all need a break. The great outdoors is one of the only places I’ve found where the noise stops. There’s no traffic, no parking battle, no background noise to respond to.

I was not raised a camper. I was told it was something for boys. That is not how I see it now. I found camping in my mid-thirties when a friend convinced me that bears would not break into my tent and eat me in my sleep. It took time to learn all the gear and planning, but over the years I have come to love it. I love going with a friend, being disconnected, and being out of cell service range.

On this recent trip I went with Autumn Reeser, a longtime friend who is an expert at camping. We both took roles and mine, as always, was food.

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Planning starts with breaking down meals. Two dinners, two breakfasts, one lunch. The first dinner is always the most perishable. The first breakfast is where you slow down and focus on comfort food. Lunch should be easy and filling. The second dinner go all out and if you eat red meat, this is a perfect meal for it. It holds up well in a cooler. Last breakfast before you leave make it easy and delicious.

Bacon cooks slowly, bagels toast on the griddle, and eggs are made to order. I love cooking fried eggs under a bowl so the top cooks evenly without making a mess on the cast iron. Once the bacon is done, I move it to a cooler part of the griddle, so it stays warm without burning. A light spray on the bagel helps it toast evenly.

After breakfast, everything is still early. Camping time moves differently. There is no hiding from the morning sun. It is the perfect time for a hike. The morning feels alive in a way that is hard to describe. Birds are active and the air is still cool enough to enjoy every step.

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After a hike and some quiet time, it is time for lunch. Salads and sandwiches work best while camping. I made a garden salad with grilled chicken. I added edamame, but it can be left out to simplify the meal. When I cook chicken on a grill pan, I sometimes cut it after the first side is cooked to reduce mess and speed up the process.

After lunch, we went into the town of Ojai. There were small corner concerts, fresh coffee, and vintage shops along the streets. It was a simple way to move between nature and town life.

Later that evening, Autumn and I started the fire an hour before dinner. We poured a glass of wine or two and finally felt our bodies slow down. Most importantly for you, we filmed a few short tips to share with you our audience.

We love s’mores, though we did not make them on this trip. If you do, bring good skewers and use Jet-Puffed marshmallows for the best melt over the fire.

I was so relaxed that I was asleep by 10. I climbed into my sleeping bag, layered up, and listened to the river rushing nearby like soft rain.

In the morning, birds were up with the sun, already loud with sound and movement. It was our last day, so breakfast was simple. Oatmeal with fresh berries. Autumn shared her camping hack of keeping honey packets on hand, which was perfect for the oatmeal.

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We took one last moment by the fire, sipped coffee, and sat in quiet before heading back into the week.

Driving out, the contrast was almost funny. When I got home the same world was still there, but something inside me had shifted. The noise didn’t disappear, but it felt farther away, less urgent. Like I had remembered there is another speed to live at, even if only for a moment around a fire.

Enjoy the camping plan, menu and recipes below. When was the first time you started camping?

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This week felt enormous.

It was one of those weeks where every emotion exists at the same time. Pride. Exhaustion. Gratitude. Stress. Joy. Hope.

My post about ARFID Andrew facing his fears with mango salsa reached over 11,000 views this week with more than 240 likes. I sat there staring at the numbers for a while because what people were really responding to was not salsa, but Andrew’s courage.

His continued attempts to eat food that his body will struggle with in front of an endless audience.

What stayed with me the most was not the numbers but the comments.

Real people, real parents writing things like, “I thought we were alone.” Adults with ARFID saying they finally felt understood. Families recognizing their child staring down at a bowl of food with fear and courage existing at the same time.

So many people connected not because of the mango salsa itself, but because they understood what that moment represented. The invisible victories around food that most of the world never notices. The emotional weight behind a single bite.

And then this week, at the exact same time Andrew’s story was reaching thousands of people, my own son picked up a toothpick with a different type of pasta on it and ate it. It was the size of a pea, it didn’t stay in his mouth, but at least it went in.

Afterward, he casually said, “I don’t care what food I try next.”

I don’t think people fully understand the magnitude of a sentence like that in an ARFID household.

Some families celebrate touchdowns, graduations, trophies, or college acceptances. In my house, sometimes we celebrate a new pasta shape. A toothpick bite. A sentence that would sound ordinary to most people but feels life changing to us.

After I dropped him off at school I held onto those words. They felt victorious.

At the same time, my afterschool cooking program wrapped up for the year, and I introduced two new awards for my students: The Golden Spoon Award and The Golden Knife Award.

As I handed the awards out, I wasn’t met with loud cheering or giant reactions.It was something quieter. Some students smiled awkwardly and looked down. Some held their certificates tightly against their chest. Some tried to act casual while clearly feeling proud inside. There was this shy excitement moving around the room, and honestly, I loved that even more.

Over the years I’ve realized that children want to feel seen, even when they do not fully know how to receive recognition yet. They want someone to notice their effort. Their improvement. Their persistence. The Golden Spoon and Golden Knife awards were never really about cooking. They were about growth.

The student who became more adventurous with flavor. The child who finally slowed down long enough to focus on precision instead of speed. The student who learned how to recover after burning something or messing up a recipe instead of shutting down.

All of it matters. Standing there watching them quietly glow with pride filled me up emotionally in a way that’s hard to explain.

This time of year always feels emotionally overwhelming to me. There are school performances, graduations, ceremonies, concerts, banquets, showcases, and endless end-of-year obligations centered around celebration. Parents are rushing from one event to the next trying to hold onto every moment while simultaneously surviving the chaos of May and June.

And sometimes, in all of that noise, the accomplishments themselves can get lost.

But later, after the dust settles, we find the cookbook left on the counter. The wrinkled certificate tucked into a backpack. The award hanging slightly crooked on the bedroom wall.

And suddenly the moment returns.

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We remember who they were that year. What they overcame. What mattered to them. I think that’s why this week has stayed with me so deeply. Because whether it was Andrew trying mango salsa, my son putting a new pasta shape into his mouth, or my students quietly accepting their awards, all of these moments carried the same truth: Growth is often quiet. It does not always arrive as giant life-changing milestones. My son putting a new pasta shape into his mouth was not small. Watching my students hold their certificates against their chest was not small either. These moments look ordinary from the outside, but they become part of how a child sees themselves.

Right now, I’m writing this from my happy place: sitting in bed with a cup of coffee, the curtains open, looking out toward Griffith Park. My body feels tired in that deep, full-body way that arrives after carrying too much for too long.

I’ve been under a lot of stress lately. But underneath the stress is a desire to continue with my purpose.

The emails and phone calls keep coming from parents hoping to get their kids into my cooking program. Some are excited. Some sound desperate. Many are searching for a place where their child can feel successful. The fact that my program has a waitlist still surprises me sometimes.

There are moments where I sit quietly and think: this cooking school I built matters to people. I love it. It reminds me of my favorite quote from A League of their own, “It’s supposed to be hard. If it wasn’t hard, everyone would do it. The hard is what makes it great.”

And this week reminded me how important it is to stop long enough to notice growth while it’s happening. Not just the loud accomplishments the world celebrates, but the quieter ones too. Because those moments are not small. They are the building blocks of confidence, identity, trust, and hope.

My name is Mary, and I’m a worried mom.

At 5 years old, he ate cucumbers, carrots, and swirly pasta with butter. The same safe foods over and over again. Anything new made him gag.

At 9 years old, he tried steak and actually liked it, but he still gagged whenever new foods entered his mouth. The same five safe foods had carried us through years of meals, holidays, birthday parties, restaurants, and school lunches.

Now he’s older. He loves lime rice with cilantro, but only if the cilantro is cooked down enough. Steak is still hit or miss. The safe foods are still largely the same foods we’ve relied on for years. And he still gags when trying something new.

I’m a worried mom who works nonstop. Oh, and by the way, I’m also a chef and nutritionist.

For a very long time, I didn’t know what Avoidant/restrictive food intake disorder was. When my child was young, the term wasn’t commonly used or understood.

Years ago, I worked on a collaborative team with a doctor, psychologist, physical therapist, and occupational therapist. For a short time, I was the nutritionist on the team. I went into homes and supported families with children who had eating challenges. My job was to help however I could.

I understood professionally that eating challenges could be extreme. I knew that patience, slow introductions, and trust could make a difference.

But helping families as a professional and living it as a mother are two completely different things.

I remember the first time I felt truly helpless as a mom, and I remember the most recent time too.

The first time was when my son had chicken pox around 18 months old. I made him chicken soup and pureed it smooth because it had always been his favorite food. He wouldn’t eat it. He couldn’t eat it. One day his safe food simply disappeared.

That’s the part people don’t always understand. Foods are constantly shifting for him. Something can feel safe one day and impossible the next.

There’s a deep sadness when food doesn’t look right to him, because he desperately wants to eat. He wants to enjoy food. But the intense gagging stops him.

We work with a brilliant occupational feeding therapist, Cheryl Ecker. She has been my rock through all of this.

I help families all the time who have children with eating challenges. In my cooking school, I see it every day. But supporting my own child has changed everything.

To him, I’m not the chef. I’m not the nutritionist. I’m not the specialist.

I’m just Mom.

What I bring to the table now is patience, love, understanding, and thanks to ARFID Andrew, hope.

Andrew was introduced to me through a friend. We were talking about my son’s struggles with food when she asked, “Do you know about ARFID Andrew?”

I immediately went to Instagram and started watching his videos.

I absolutely devoured his content.

Here was one of the bravest people I had ever seen, willing to share his journey publicly and expose himself gagging over and over again to raise awareness and help others feel less alone.

As I watched his videos, I found myself laugh-crying. He smiled through so many difficult moments. He laughed during these epic food battles in a way that somehow made them feel lighter and more hopeful.

I reached out to Andrew as a mother, thanking him profusely for his courage and vulnerability, because he gave me something I desperately needed: hope.

He responded immediately and was just as gracious in Instagram DMs as he is in his videos.

Eventually, we made plans to collaborate on content together.

Over the course of five hours, I watched firsthand as he endured “enemy foods” again and again. I listened to his story, and so many of his experiences mirrored what I see in my own son.

I’m very private about my children because I believe it should always be their choice whether they appear on social media.

My son and I have had long conversations about Andrew and his bravery. When we decided to collaborate and create videos to raise awareness, my son told me I could share that I am a mother raising a child with ARFID.

My hope is that these videos find the families who need them most.

Are you a parent to a child with Arfid’s? Do you know anyone with Arfid’s? What is their safe foods? I’m here, I’ll listen, we can support each other.

I immediately went to Instagram and started watching his videos.

I absolutely devoured his content.

Here was one of the bravest people I had ever seen, willing to share his journey publicly and expose himself gagging over and over again to raise awareness and help others feel less alone.

As I watched his videos, I found myself laugh-crying. He smiled through so many difficult moments. He laughed during these epic food battles in a way that somehow made them feel lighter and more hopeful.

I reached out to Andrew as a mother, thanking him profusely for his courage and vulnerability, because he gave me something I desperately needed: hope.

He responded immediately and was just as gracious in Instagram DMs as he is in his videos.

Eventually, we made plans to collaborate on content together.

Over the course of five hours, I watched firsthand as he endured “enemy foods” again and again. I listened to his story, and so many of his experiences mirrored what I see in my own son.

I’m very private about my children because I believe it should always be their choice whether they appear on social media.

My son and I have had long conversations about Andrew and his bravery. When we decided to collaborate and create videos to raise awareness, my son told me I could share that I am a mother raising a child with ARFID.

My hope is that these videos find the families who need them most.

Are you a parent to a child with Arfid’s? Do you know anyone with Arfid’s? What is their safe foods? I’m here, I’ll listen, we can support each other.

A toothpick with a pea-sized piece of chicken made it into my teenage son’s mouth (diagnosed with ARFID) this week, and I stood there watching out of the corner of my eye in utter joy and excitement. What did I do? Literally nothing except take note. He finished his buttered spaghetti pasta, passed on the watermelon because it was too light in color, and then left the empty toothpick in the bowl as if to reinforce that he had eaten it. He grabbed his two-dish requirement, placed them into the dishwasher, and quietly walked away.

ARFID is an interesting eating disorder. It is not based on body image or even simply liking or disliking food, but rather an inability to eat certain foods. As a child, I remember struggling with food as well. I was unable to eat much of anything, really. The feeling and sensation of crunchy textures outside of crackers felt alarming and usually ended with me crying and spitting out the food. At that time there was no diagnosis, and I am not even sure if I would have been considered an ARFID kid.

As I grew up, I remember the firsts: the first time I tried steak and liked it, the first time I tried creamy pesto pasta, and the first time I ate sushi. Before culinary school, I remember a friend taking me to a sushi restaurant because she could not believe I had never tried it. She had her dad’s credit card and insisted on paying for our meal and ordering all of her favorites for me to try.

I had never even heard of sushi. Can you imagine? As California kids in 2026, it is now my kids’ weekly delivered food.

I remember the California roll being dropped at our table and the sweat pooling on my brow. I could not imagine that I was going to have to eat that strange-looking food. I did not recognize anything in it. I watched as she poured soy sauce into her bowl and thought, finally, something familiar. I copied her.

She opened her chopsticks, grabbed a roll, dipped it, and put the whole thing into her mouth. So many thoughts swirled through my head. How was I supposed to eat that in one bite when my bites were typically fit for a mouse?

I sat there for an uncomfortable amount of time before she finally asked, “Are you going to eat it?” Based on my body language, she was convinced I was not.

But I was a determined kid who never wanted to back down from a challenge, even if it meant eating this awful, non-food-looking thing. I fumbled with the chopsticks, plunged the California roll into the soy sauce, and shoved it into my mouth. All I could think was, thank God it mostly tasted like the salty soy sauce I had drowned it in.

She asked, “Well? Do you like it?”

I nodded convincingly, or so I thought.

I took a deep breath. I did it. And now she expected me to eat another one.

I managed to get down three of the five pieces and felt victorious until she asked, “Are you not going to eat the others?”

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All of my effort seemed to go unnoticed.

Now, years later, as I watch my son look intently at food before eating it, I understand deeply the stress, nervousness, and bravery it takes to overcome the fear of a new food.

I met Arfid Andrew a little less than a month ago after a friend recommended his channel to me. I watched his content, well, devoured his content. He was facing all of his food fears with laughter and joy to millions of people.

I already had plans for my next set of videos, but when Andrew and I started talking, we decided to collaborate. He was down to cook whatever I had planned. Little did I know, he hates salsa of any kind. He had deemed them enemy foods.

This week’s videos centered around mango salsa.

My first step was to have him touch and prep the food, and when you watch the video, you can visibly see how uncomfortable he is. It is not an act. He is genuinely uncomfortable touching the food. As we stood together and he fidgeted with nerves, I handed him a towel to play with.

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We worked from most comfortable to least comfortable, and as he dissected his comfort level, he was completely honest. Touching jalapeños, bell peppers, lime, and mango was not easy for him. It is subtle but noticeable. When he touches the red bell pepper, he scoots it across the cutting board after touching it. It is such a small action, but it really showcases his anxiety.

Nevertheless, we got through all of the ingredients, and he was able to mix everything together.

When it came time to eat it, I honestly was not sure he was going to be able to put it in his mouth. He scooped a bit onto a spoon, paused for a moment, and then put it into his mouth. It came right back out with a smile and a laugh. He said the texture was so difficult for him.

After the camera stopped rolling, we cheered because we knew that was massive. We were all very aware that he might not eat it at all. Sometimes food is so stressful that it never even makes it into his mouth, much like with my teenage son.

Andrew has helped illuminate so much about ARFID. He does not carry the shame that so many people do. It is beautiful that he is able to share his story and experiences, especially for people like me, who were possibly undiagnosed with a very mild version, and for my son, who has not yet reached the stage of laughter and joy. For him, it still feels difficult and sad at times, which is why that empty toothpick felt so monumental. It was a moment that I knew made him feel proud, but quietly and privately.

Please check out my latest video with Arfid Andrew, and if you have a friend or loved one with ARFID, please share my story. Let’s open up the conversation about ARFID.

July 21st, 2018, I drove home from teaching pasta and donut class at the King’s Roost, my home away from home. The sun was shining, there was a cool breeze in the air, life was good. Per the usual, I called my mom to follow up on the normal day to day life. 

I needed to grab a few things for a small friend dinner party that night. I pulled into my favorite Trader Joes, that was just miles from my house.  

My mom was on speakerphone laughing hysterically about a dinner party she had just had “a fish fry”, where everything had gone slightly awry. As I sat in the parking lot, I was listening, laughing and yet staring at the door to the Trader Joe’s through my side mirror, thinking how much I needed to pop in and buy dinner for my own gathering. Any other day, I would have gotten out of my car and taken her with me into the store, but that day I just sat and listened. And in a matter of seconds the world stopped, screeching tires raced, gun fire rang through the air, something was hit,  then more gun fire and then silence.

“Oh my god mom, something bad is happening, something really bad, there’s gun shots all around me,” I said. As I looked out the side of my car, all I could see were officers with their guns drawn.  Then the bullets shot out of their guns. I watched as the bullets flew out of their pistols. It was a sight I had never seen, even though in my life I have been in four other hold ups (it’s sounds strange even to me that I have been in two other hold ups). 

My breath quickened as I slumped down into the bottom of my car under my steering wheel to protect myself.

Was the man behind my car, to the side, how many of them were there, what was happening? In a moment, when you don’t know what’s happening, anything good or bad is a reality. As my mind raced with unanswered questions, I peeked out my side window to see the police holding their position.  Then a helicopter flew above with rifles drawn and stayed in a circling pattern. They were pointed directly at my car.

I was stuck. “Mom, this is bad, have dad call James, tell him I’m in trouble”, and then I said it, “If I don’t make it, I love you.” 

My mom sat in disbelief on the other end of the phone, as if what I was saying wasn’t actually a possibility, but I knew it was. I genuinely didn’t know how I was going to get out of this situation. Over and over and over I said I love you, and though those words were all I could say, what I felt was if this doesn’t turn out well, if I don’t live to see another day, tell my husband, my children, my family, my friends, tell everyone I loved them all. 

Every so often I peered over my steering wheel to look to see if this madness was over, and every time I was devastated to know my new home under my steering wheel wasn’t a thing of my past. As all tense and stressful moments go, this was no different and in the intensity of this moment where I was scared out of mind, I turned on my windshield wipers. I frantically tried to turn them off, so that I wouldn’t bring attention to my car.  It took a couple of tries and a few annoyed moments as I listened to them screech across my dry windshield in an alternating fashion.

Finally, after what seemed like an hour, I finally peered over my steering wheel and there was an armed officer looking straight at me. She with a few hand motions indicated that it was time to get out of my car. It was a blur when or how I told my mom that I was going to run out of my car, but I do remember that thanks to her help my husband was waiting to scoop me up and rescue me. 

I cracked open my car door, dropped to the ground, I still had no idea what was happening or where the gunman was. At that moment I had no clue if I was going to be shot as I ran for cover. I slithered on the ground, hoped over a 3-foot wall and ran for my life. 

As I reached the main street tears were streaming down my cheeks and as all happy endings occur, my husband was their waiting for me, grabbed me, embraced me and kissed me. I sat in the front seat overwhelmed in a way that was unexplainable. 

We drove home and as thoughts raced through my head, and I started hearing what had actually taken place my heart dropped for a second time, as there were still others, many others that were still inside with the perpetrator. 

I dialed my friend who was planning to come to dinner with her family, and as I was about to say please don’t come, I said, “Jena can you come a little later for dinner, I’ve just been in a hold up at the Trader Joes and I need more time to make dinner”. We cried on the phone together and I am pretty sure that she said something like we don’t have to, we can bring dinner, etc. I knew at that moment I needed to be surrounded with love, friends and comforting meal. 

We were home, my safe place, my haven. I kissed my boys, I told them I loved them, and I went into my kitchen. I looked in my fridge and there was almost nothing there (I was at the store to shop for dinner). I saw ground beef and knew that Bolognese would be a perfect dinner under the circumstances. 

I turned on the stove, listened to the helicopters, listened to the sirens-still at the Trader Joe’s. I knew I had been lucky; I knew I had been saved. I sautéed my carrots and onions. Seared my ground beef, lovingly stirred in the wine, thought about the people still trapped inside, simmered the rich beef sauce, thought about my car still in the parking lot with all of my belongings. I took a deep breath and breathed my life coming back to me with each cooking step I took. 

The doorbell rang, my friends were there, we embraced, we poured wine to celebrate life.  As I told and relived the story over dinner, I realized that had my mom not told me of her dinner party’s dilemma’s that I too could have been caught in the cross fire, as one wonderful Trader Joe’s manager, whom I saw regularly, and was greeted with her angelic smile, Mely Corado had been. 

Cooking is my passion and has saved me so many times in my life, but this one day it saved me more ways than I can count. 

Listen to all of Mary’s surprising events (bombings, plane crash, and hold ups) on The First Degree Podcast

“ARFID is super important to me. My son has ARFIDs and finding Andrew was a gift and I’m so excited to teach you some of my favorite dishes",” said Chef Mary.

Read more about my family’s journey with Arfid and subscribe to my Substack to get the newest Arfid Andrew and my cooking videos.

Do you have Arfid? A friend with Arfid, know someone with a child who has it?

When my son was 18 months old, he ate five foods. When new foods entered his mouth, he gagged.

My name is Mary, and I’m a worried mom.

At 5 years old, he ate cucumbers, carrots, and swirly pasta with butter. The same safe foods over and over again. Anything new made him gag.

At 9 years old, he tried steak and actually liked it, but he still gagged whenever new foods entered his mouth. The same five safe foods had carried us through years of meals, holidays, birthday parties, restaurants, and school lunches.

Now he’s older. He loves lime rice with cilantro, but only if the cilantro is cooked down enough. Steak is still hit or miss. The safe foods are still largely the same foods we’ve relied on for years. And he still gags when trying something new.

I’m a worried mom who works nonstop. Oh, and by the way, I’m also a chef and nutritionist.

For a very long time, I didn’t know what Avoidant/restrictive food intake disorder was. When my child was young, the term wasn’t commonly used or understood.

Years ago, I worked on a collaborative team with a doctor, psychologist, physical therapist, and occupational therapist. For a short time, I was the nutritionist on the team. I went into homes and supported families with children who had eating challenges. My job was to help however I could.

I understood professionally that eating challenges could be extreme. I knew that patience, slow introductions, and trust could make a difference.

But helping families as a professional and living it as a mother are two completely different things.

I remember the first time I felt truly helpless as a mom, and I remember the most recent time too.

The first time was when my son had chicken pox around 18 months old. I made him chicken soup and pureed it smooth because it had always been his favorite food. He wouldn’t eat it. He couldn’t eat it. One day his safe food simply disappeared.

That’s the part people don’t always understand. Foods are constantly shifting for him. Something can feel safe one day and impossible the next.

There’s a deep sadness when food doesn’t look right to him, because he desperately wants to eat. He wants to enjoy food. But the intense gagging stops him.

We work with a brilliant occupational feeding therapist, Cheryl Ecker. She has been my rock through all of this.

I help families all the time who have children with eating challenges. In my cooking school, I see it every day. But supporting my own child has changed everything.

To him, I’m not the chef. I’m not the nutritionist. I’m not the specialist.

I’m just Mom.

What I bring to the table now is patience, love, understanding, and thanks to ARFID Andrew, hope.

Andrew was introduced to me through a friend. We were talking about my son’s struggles with food when she asked, “Do you know about ARFID Andrew?”

I immediately went to Instagram and started watching his videos.

I absolutely devoured his content.

Here was one of the bravest people I had ever seen, willing to share his journey publicly and expose himself gagging over and over again to raise awareness and help others feel less alone.

As I watched his videos, I found myself laugh-crying. He smiled through so many difficult moments. He laughed during these epic food battles in a way that somehow made them feel lighter and more hopeful.

I reached out to Andrew as a mother, thanking him profusely for his courage and vulnerability, because he gave me something I desperately needed: hope.

He responded immediately and was just as gracious in Instagram DMs as he is in his videos.

Eventually, we made plans to collaborate on content together.

Over the course of five hours, I watched firsthand as he endured “enemy foods” again and again. I listened to his story, and so many of his experiences mirrored what I see in my own son.

I’m very private about my children because I believe it should always be their choice whether they appear on social media.

My son and I have had long conversations about Andrew and his bravery. When we decided to collaborate and create videos to raise awareness, my son told me I could share that I am a mother raising a child with ARFID.

My hope is that these videos find the families who need them most.

Are you a parent to a child with Arfid’s? Do you know anyone with Arfid’s? What is their safe foods? I’m here, I’ll listen, we can support each other.

Cobb Salad is a classic, and as an adult, I think of it as my indulgent salad. It’s the one I usually order at a restaurant because of how time consuming it can be to prepare at home with all of the different ingredients. But whenever I do make it myself, I’m always reminded why it’s worth the effort. I get to control every ingredient, every texture, every flavor. The freshest ingredients are what turn a good salad into a great one, and my secret ingredient takes this version into something truly special.

In some parts of the country, summer has already arrived, and there’s something exciting about that first wave of warm weather foods. Salads, summer fruit, and grilled proteins feel almost magical after months of heavier meals. It’s the same feeling as the first snowfall of winter, a seasonal shift you’ve been patiently waiting for that finally arrives.

Cobb Salad is like your favorite sweatshirt. Familiar, comforting, and maybe a little worn, but still something you love returning to. Food is funny that way. We’re always searching for something new, inventive, and elevated, yet we constantly crave the meals that feel like home.

About a decade ago, I was covering the Food & Wine Classic in Aspen for a news story. As part of the press, I was invited to an elegant tasting event featuring chefs from around the country. Each chef presented beautifully plated appetizers: delicate bites served in shells, tiny wooden forks, and dramatic foams, which were wildly popular at the time. Every table had a small crowd admiring these intricate creations except for one table in the center of the room, which had a line wrapping around it.

Naturally, I joined the line.

When I finally reached the front, I discovered what everyone had been waiting for: a meatball. Not a trendy interpretation or a modernized reinvention. Just a deeply flavorful, perfectly made meatball topped with shaved parmesan and pecorino. It was comforting like your grandmother use to make but better. It was more memorable than every elaborate dish surrounding it. An old favorite, elevated with care and just a few thoughtful ingredients.

That’s exactly how I feel about Cobb Salad (recipe is below).

My secret ingredient is fresh dill. I love the herby, slightly fennel-like citrus flavor it brings to summer salads. It brightens the richness of the bacon, eggs, chicken, and blue cheese, giving the entire salad a freshness that feels unexpected but completely right.

What do you add to an old favorite to make it better?

Cobb Salad

Ingredients

• 2 chicken breasts grilled*, and cut into 1-2” dice

• 1 ripe Haas avocado, diced

• 2 tomatoes, quartered

• 2 eggs, hardboiled, peeled and quartered

• ½ cup blue cheese, crumbles

• 4 bacon strips, cooked and crumbled

• 1 tablespoon fresh dill leaves, rough chopped

• 2 heads of baby gem lettuce, roughly chopped

• ½ cup ranch dressing

Directions

1. Plate the lettuce on 2 large plates.

2. Take each of the ingredients and lay them in a wedge on the lettuce on each plate.

3. Top with dill, salt and pepper.

4. Serve with homemade ranch*.

5. Enjoy.

*Ranch Dressing Makes 1 cup: ½ cup mayo, ½ cup sour cream, 1/3 cup buttermilk, 1/4 teaspoon garlic powder, 2 teaspoon fresh or dried parsley, ½ teaspoon fresh or dried dill, 2 drops of Tabasco, 1 teaspoon fresh chopped chives, ½ lemon juiced, ¼ teaspoon salt and cracked pepper. Mix. Serve.

Are we over kale salad? As a food obsessor, I am always trying to stay ahead of the curve. It is literally my job to know what is hot now and what is coming next. But what actually happens to trendy foods like kale? Do they disappear, or do they settle into something more familiar, like the old garden salad with ranch?

About a decade ago, when I was writing recipes for Traditional Home magazine, I pitched a dish idea to my mom for an upcoming spread. It was something like plank white fish with a corn and tomato topping. After I described it, she hesitated and said she was not sure because she had never seen anything like it before. I remember thinking that was exactly the point. My job was to create something new, something that had not yet been seen.

That moment stuck with me because it captures what chefs and recipe developers are always chasing. We hope something we create becomes the next braised short rib, a dish so popular it trickles through the culture and eventually lands on fast food menus. It reminds me of that scene in The Devil Wears Prada where Miranda Priestley explains the origins of a seemingly simple blue sweater. She traces it from high fashion runways down through the industry until it lands in everyday retail. Food works the same way. The ideas start somewhere intentional and creative, then filter down into everyday cooking.

When I think about kale salad, I also think about my grandmother. She used kale and similar greens mostly as decoration, lining silver trays that held deviled eggs, cucumber sandwiches, or chicken salad. And the caretaker in our home made rich, slow cooked greens that she loved deeply. In both cases, kale was not the star. It was either background or tradition.

Now kale has a completely different role. It is a centerpiece, especially in salads, though it still requires that extra step of massaging to reach that perfect tender texture. So do I think kale will disappear? Not at all. It has moved beyond decoration and beyond its place as only a stewed green. It has become a staple.

As my writing group is always drilling into me, the WHY NOW why do we care? Why are we even asking if kale is over? Part of it is timing. Kale had a long, visible moment in the spotlight. It became shorthand for a certain kind of eating, health forward, ingredient driven, a little aspirational. When something reaches that level of saturation, it naturally invites backlash. We start to question it, not always because we are tired of the ingredient itself, but because we are tired of what it represents. At the same time, a new wave of ingredients is always waiting in the wings, ready to be discovered, renamed, and reframed as the next essential.

And why do we care? Because food trends are never just about food. They signal how we want to live. Kale’s rise told us we were paying more attention to nutrition, to texture, to bold and sometimes bitter flavors. It marked a shift away from passive eating toward something more intentional. To care about whether kale is still relevant is really to care about whether those values are still driving the way we cook and eat. And as food costs are soaring and we are still wanting to life a healthy lifestyle, kale still fits that bill, an affordable green that will nourish our bodies.

Like fashion, it will evolve. Trends always shift, and not everything has staying power. But kale has already proven it can adapt. We have embraced its bitterness, its texture, and its nutritional density. It will continue to ebb and flow in popularity, but it is firmly part of the way we eat now.

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Just like the most memorable looks from the Oscars, the Golden Globes, Vogue, or the Met Gala, only a few trends truly last. Kale, in its many forms, feels like one of them. And maybe that is why now feels like the moment to reconsider it, not because it is fading, but because it has fully crossed over. What was once my grandmother’s practical garnish, something used to line a tray or support a spread, has become a marker of how we eat today. Its relevance comes from that transformation. Kale carries both memory and momentum. It reflects where we have been and how far our tastes have shifted toward bold flavor, texture, and intention. Trends come and go, but the ones that matter reshape the way we think about food. Kale did that quietly, steadily and pushed us into a new tier of food.

Do you still like kale?

What do you think is the new food trend?

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Add the flour, then the salt, then your butter. Use your fingers to work the butter into the flour.

This step takes time, and that’s the reason I love it. Let it be slow. Let it be quiet. Notice the temperature of the butter, the texture of the flour, the way it changes in your hands. Take a deep breath. Then another. Allow your thoughts to settle as you move through the process.

Add the water and begin to bring the dough together. Knead gently. This is not bread dough, it does not need force. It needs care. Slow, thoughtful movements will bring it together into a soft dough ball. When it does, you’re finished with the meditation and this step of the recipe.

Take a second here. Acknowledge what you made. Breathe in. Breathe out. Then move on.

Carry this feeling with you through the rest of your baking. This is your reminder the kitchen is the place to slow down, to focus, and to reconnect with yourself.

Want the recipe? Look below. Share it with a friend. I will see you soon.

Quiche Lorraine

Quiche is one of those foods I didn’t like as a kid. The idea of an egg pie wasn’t exactly exciting. Now, I love quiche more than anything. A simple quiche with a tangy salad feels like the perfect way to ease into a late morning.

While you’re making the crust, take a moment to slow down and settle into the process. Step away from your phone and let it be a small break from the usual distractions. Pay attention to the feel of the dough as it comes together, the rhythm of rolling it out. It is a simple task, but there is something deeply satisfying about being fully present while you cook.

I love this recipe. When we made and photographed it, I found myself wishing I had tripled the bacon and onions for the sake of how it looked. For taste, though, it is perfectly balanced as written. When you make it, think about what you want from it. Doubling or even tripling the bacon and onions will give you a richer, more indulgent quiche and that full, bakery style look, but as is, it delivers exactly what it should.

Servings: 4 | Time: 85 minutes

Ingredients

Filling Ingredients

• ½ cup small, diced bacon

• ¼ cup small diced yellow onions

• 2 eggs

• 4 yolks

• 2 cups heavy cream

• ¼ cup gruyere cheese

• salt and pepper

Crust Ingredients

• 1 ½ cups AP flour

• 1 ½ teaspoons salt

• 6 tablespoons butter

• ¼ cup cold water

• 1 egg, beaten

Directions

Filling Directions

1. In a sauté pan add the bacon and cook until brown.

2. Remove them from the pan and add the onions to the bacon fat and sauté until soft and aromatic.

3. Add the onions to the bacon pieces and let cool.

4. Mix eggs, egg yolks and cream together well. Set aside.

Crust Directions

1. Add flour and salt to a large bowl and mix.

2. Cut the butter into very small cubes, drop the butter into the flour.

3. Use your fingers to work the butter into the flour, the mixture should look like wet sand.

4. When the flour looks like wet sand, slowly add water into the dough until it forms a ball.

5. Then press the dough into a circular disc and roll it to a 1/4-1/2-inch-thick disc.

6. Next, lay the disc into a greased pie pan.

Directions for Quiche

1. Refrigerate pie crust for an hour and then remove from the refrigerator.

2. Add pie weights to the pan and bake for 10 minutes on 400 degrees.

3. Remove from the oven allow it to cool.

4. Fill the pan with egg mixture and top with onion, bacon, grated gruyere cheese, salt and pepper.

5. Bake at 325 for 45 minutes or until cooked through.

We didn’t realize we forgot the ketchup packets until we were already home.

What seemed like a small oversight quickly became a much bigger problem. The tween was very upset and refused to eat the fries without ketchup packets. It was not a small complaint. It was a firm no. Her mom was just as frustrated, stuck between wanting her child to eat and not having what felt like the one essential piece.

We ended up eating the fries ourselves, using a bottle of ketchup from the refrigerator as a backup, but it was not the same experience (even for me).

Cold ketchup is my nemesis.

After years of paying attention to food details, I found myself wondering why refrigerated ketchup never seemed as tasty. As we talked about it, one thing became clear. Room temperature ketchup keeps fries warm and tastes noticeably sweeter. Something I had never put into words.

She was right, this deep dive of a discovery gave both of a larger vocabulary between our likes and dislikes of ketchup, The ketchup did in fact taste sweeter at room temp and did it not cool down the fries. This may seem like a small or tolerable difference for most adults, but for a child with sensory sensitivities, it can be a deal breaker.

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My children and I have had an ongoing struggle with food. Mine improved during culinary school, but every once in a while something still triggers a strong sensory response. My system pushes back with a firm refusal.

We usually have takeout on weekends. When you cook for work, it is not always exciting to do the same at home. Sometimes the issue is not ketchup packets but something as small as a missing plastic fork.

When my kids were younger, I assumed it was about the cool black color of the plastic utensils. Over time, I stopped asking and went on autopilot. Recently, I asked my thirteen year old if he could use a metal spoon because we were out of plastic forks.

His answer surprised me. He said he could, but the cold spoon makes the food cool down quickly and changes the flavor of the rice. In that moment, everything clicked. Those years of frustration and tears were not about preference alone. His sensory system was reacting to real changes in temperature and taste.

These small details can have a big impact. Children do not always have the words to explain what feels wrong, but that does not mean the problem is not there. Sometimes a hidden sensory issue is the reason a child refuses to eat.

Instead of dismissing their frustration, it helps to ask better questions. Move beyond asking why they do not like something or what is wrong with it. Try asking if the flavor is different from what they expected, or if the temperature or texture feels off.

Understanding often comes slowly, sometimes years later. But when it does, those missing puzzle pieces can completely change how we support our children at the table.

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• Here’s why it felt safe:

  • The dish was topped with cheese. Cheese felt familiar and safe.

  • Pesto, green and potent, was decreased intensity because of the cream.

  • The bowtie pasta shape was fun, and exciting to eat as a kid, overall it felt special.

I love using bow tie pasta for this recipe, because it’s super kid friendly. However, if there is a shape your kids love, use that! Tackle one new element on a plate at a time.

Your kids will love this pesto creamy pasta recipe and please share it with those who might love it too.

P.s. the recipe is below.

Creamy Pesto Pasta

Serves 4

Cook Time 30 minutes

Ingredients

• 4 cups dried bow tie pasta

• 2 ½ cups heavy cream

• 4 tablespoons

• ¼ cup fresh pesto

• ¼ cup parmesan cheese + more for garnish

• ½ teaspoon salt

• ¼ teaspoon cracked pepper

• Fresh basil leaves

*Pesto Ingredients

• 2 cups basil leaves

• 1 cloves garlic, minced

• 1⁄2 cup olive oil

• 2 tablespoons Parmesan

• 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

• 2 tablespoons toasted pine nuts

• ¼ teaspoon kosher salt

• pepper

Directions

1. In a large pot bring about 6 quarts of water to boil or enough water that gives the pasta room to cook and grow.

2. Add pasta into the water and cook until done about 12 minutes.

3. Strain and set aside in a bowl.

4. Add the cream into the same pot and bring to a simmer and reduce the cream by a fourth.

5. Add in pesto* and stir.

6. Fold in the pasta a little at a time until it’s completely covered.

7. Mix in parmesan cheese and salt.

8. Plate the pasta and top with parmesan, pepper and garnish with basil.

9. Serve.

*Pesto Directions

1. In the blender add the basil, olive oil, lemon juice, cheese, garlic and pine nuts.

2. Season with salt and pepper.

3. If it doesn’t blend simply add more liquid.

I’m Chef Mary, founder of The Silver Lake Kitchen in Los Angeles, where I teach practical, from-scratch cooking to students of all ages. I’m also the author of The Vita Gang Mysteries: Who Stole Vita D?, available on Amazon.

• Featured in AllRecipes, Scary Mommy, and 405 Magazine

• TV appearances include Great Day K.C. and E! That Morning Show

• Brand collaborations with Messermeister

• Podcast guest appearances including The First Degree, The Jackie Kashian Podcast, and Making It After 40

Another reason this salad can feel intimidating is the dressing. For many home cooks, salad dressing comes with a quiet stress, getting the balance right, or finding the time to make it at all.

Those concerns are real, but this one is different. It’s essentially foolproof, and aside from chopping shallots, it comes together with very little effort. There’s no tricky emulsification step, which is often the part that feels the most frustrating. Oil and vinegar naturally resist staying blended, so instead of fighting it, make the dressing in a sealable jar. Add the ingredients to the jar and when you’re ready to use it, shake it, pour it, and you’re done. They even make bottles designed for homemade dressings, but a simple jar works just as well.

Lastly, the croutons or crostini. In this video, I made crostini because I love the added crunch with this salad, but let’s be honest, you don’t need them unless you want them. A good slice of sourdough or a French baguette does the job just as well, and even that is optional.

Honestly, the salad stands on its own.

Enjoy the recipe. Save it. Share it.

Heirloom Tomato Salad with Fresh Tomato Vinaigrette

Serves 2

Hands on 25 minutes

Ingredients

• 4 slices French baguette

• 2 tablespoons olive oil

• ¼ teaspoon kosher salt

• 3 heirloom tomatoes a variety of colors, cut into slices

• 1 cup small heirloom grape tomatoes, halved

• ½ shallot, thinly sliced

• 1 teaspoon capers

• ½ cup buffalo mozzarella pearls

• ½ cup basil, sliced

Directions

1. Drizzle the bread with oil and salt.

2. Heat a nonstick pan and place the slices oil side down.

3. Cook for 10 minutes or until brown.

4. Lay the bread on the plate and top with tomatoes.

5. Add the grape tomatoes, shallots, capers, mozzarella, basil and toasted bread to a plate.

6. Drizzle the vinaigrette* onto the tomatoes.

*Red wine and parsley dressing: ¼ cup red wine vinegar, 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice, ¼ cup olive oil, ¼ teaspoon kosher salt and mix.