What I See is Love was written in the hope that its readers would find the beauty of love in its simplest, purest form—the kind we experience in everyday moments that often go unnoticed. The sleepy-eyed snuggles in the morning, the little hand that reaches for yours without thinking, the whispered “I love you” at bedtime. These moments shape a childhood—the ones that stay long after we’ve grown.
But as we all know, love comes in many forms. For my family, love always started in our kitchen. This love fills our home, passes down through generations, and is carried in stories, laughter, and, most importantly, the meals we share. The aroma of certain foods brings me right back to my childhood, and I can't help but smile.
Growing up in the 80s, TV dinners were all the rage. The ease of microwavable meals, eating in front of the television, and fast food became common in so many households—but not in mine. My parents still made it a point to gather around the table. No matter how busy life was, no matter what time dance class or soccer practice ended, we sat together, passed the bread, and talked about our day. That simple act gave me something far greater than a meal—it gave me a sense of belonging.
That’s the kind of love I want my children to feel every night. It’s why dinner in our home is sacred. Cell phones are put away. We ask about each other’s day. We slow down, savoring every little morsel—not just of food, but of conversation, of laughter, of presence.
But the connection doesn’t start at the table—it begins in the kitchen. Cooking together isn’t just about making food; it’s about making memories. There’s something special about standing side by side, chopping vegetables, stirring sauces, and kneading dough with little hands eager to help. It’s in these moments that walls come down and real conversations begin. Learning happens naturally—whether it’s measuring ingredients or sharing what’s on our minds.
Some of the best, most honest talks happen while we cook—not because they’re planned, but because there’s no pressure. There’s a certain magic in peeling garlic or rolling out pizza dough that makes it easier to open up. Maybe it’s because our hands are busy, or maybe it’s because love is felt in the act of creating something together. Whatever it is, the kitchen has a way of inviting connection.
And when we finally sit down to eat, the table becomes more than just a place to fill our bellies. It’s a sacred space—one where laughter is shared, gratitude is spoken, and sometimes, hard conversations unfold. It’s where my children feel safe to ask questions, to share their thoughts, to know they are heard. It’s where they learn that love isn’t just something we say—it’s something we show in the way we listen, the way we serve, and the way we make space for one another.
There’s a special joy in watching my children ask for seconds—not just because they’re hungry, but because they love what’s been made for them. And one of my favorite traditions? Their nightly dinner ratings—an impromptu game where they giggle through their critiques, giving scores based on taste, presentation, and sometimes even the “fun” factor of the meal. (I’ve learned that any dish with cheese gets an automatic boost.) Although, I must admit, Luca is my toughest critic.
Of course, love through food has been a theme throughout my life—I just didn’t always appreciate it. My childhood lunches, for example, were not a fun time. Unlike the other kids, whose sandwiches fit neatly into a brown paper bag, my lunch came in a Publix plastic bag—because there was simply too much food to fit in anything smaller. My favorites were mortadella sandwiches and eggs with potatoes, but I was absolutely mortified carrying what felt like a suitcase full of food. I didn’t realize then what I know now: my mom wasn’t just packing a lunch; she was packing love.
And nothing has changed. When my parents come to visit, there’s always one suitcase filled entirely with food. I can’t tell you how many times we’ve spent hours trying to air out the lingering smell of fish or how often something leaked, leaving us questioning every decision we’d ever made. As much as it used to drive me crazy, I now realize their intention. No, they weren’t prepping for the apocalypse (though, let’s be honest, if the world ends, my parents will still have enough food to last a lifetime).
These moments remind me that love isn’t just spoken—it’s served, shared, and remembered. It’s in the recipes passed down, the traditions we keep alive, and the way we make time for one another, even on the busiest days.
That’s what I hope What I See is Love reminds families—that love is everywhere, even at the dinner table. And that the love we pour into our children today, through our words, our presence, and even the meals we cook, will stay with them forever.
So tonight, let’s slow down. Let’s set the table with intention. Let’s invite love in—not just in the food we serve but in the way we listen, the way we laugh, and the way we make home feel like the safest, warmest place in the world.
What’s a meal that reminds you of home? A recipe that carries a piece of your family’s love? I’d love to hear about it in the comments!
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