the chef in me

I stood in a kitchen not made of walls,
but of purpose —
heat rising like prayers from the pots of my soul.
An exquisite place,
where every dish I served
was more than food —
it was a form of love
measured in care,
seasoned in sacrifice,
and plated with pride.

They called me chef —
but what I was…
was a healer with an apron,
a quiet architect of dignity
on fine china.
The wine?
That was my wisdom,
aged in silence,
uncorked in the moment
someone saw me.

I have fed the forgotten.
Poured into the parched.
Held steady in the chaos,
while stirring a pot
no one else wanted to touch.

They tasted it — finally.
The ones in charge.
They saw what I carry in my hands,
in my heart —
and they whispered,
“She is ready.”

And I am.
For greater rooms.
For louder applause.
For sacred service that looks like work,
but feels like worship.

So tonight,
under dreams and starlight,
I prepare another plate —
for the world,
for the ones I serve,
for myself.

Bon appétit to becoming.