I was an unopened jar.
Sealed. Labeled. Preserved for a feast not yet announced.
I had kept my kitchen closed.
No tasting. No sampling. No curious fingers dipping into broth before the banquet bell.
I wanted the first meal to matter.
To arrive plated with honour.
To be served warm under covenant light.
And so I waited.
And I did.
In the weeks before the wedding, the pastor became a culinary instructor of mysteries.
He spoke of textures I had never felt.
Temperatures I had never tested.
Combinations I had never imagined.
A book was recommended.
Its pages were crowded with diagrams of plated secrets.
Cuts of meat arranged with unapologetic boldness.
Fruits sliced open without shame.
I flipped quickly, startled by the loudness of the pictures.
It felt like wandering into a kitchen where every pot was already boiling.
I closed it.
Till today, it still waits like an untouched recipe card.
During counselling, the pastor’s voice rose like a chef urging flame higher.
More heat.
More pressure.
More intensity.
I nodded with the confidence of someone who had never held a knife.
I spoke boldly to friends about the feast ahead.
I described flavours I had never tasted.
I announced mastery over meals I had never cooked.
They listened.
They smiled.
They hummed the quiet hum of diners who know the menu is longer than the description.
The first night arrived like a table fully set yet strangely unfamiliar.
The room smelled of promise.
Candles trembled like soup about to simmer.
But I did not know where the doorway to the kitchen truly was.
I searched like a hungry traveller tracing the aroma of stew through winding streets.
I asked for light.
I needed visibility.
How does one find the spoon in a room full of silver?
Confusion tasted bitter.
Expectation tasted loud.
At some point, something shifted.
Like dough suddenly rising without announcement.
Like spice quietly dissolving into oil.
Then it happened.
Quick.
Almost shy.
Like the first bite taken too fast because the waiter was still watching.
No orchestra.
No fireworks of flavour I had loudly predicted.
Just a small swallow of reality.
Years ago, when I spoke with thunder about this grand banquet, my married friends simply said, Hmm.
That hmm was the sound of slow cooking.
The sound of recipes that cannot be rushed.
The sound of flavours that only time can persuade.
Now I understand the hmm.
Because some meals must marinate in patience before sweetness reveals itself.
I often tell young girls and boys: do not scatter your ingredients across every passing table.
Do not pour your finest oil into careless fires.
Do not serve your signature dish in markets where nothing sacred is tasted slowly.
Pleasure, when shared without covenant, becomes crumbs carried away by restless winds.
Flavour diffuses.
Aroma weakens.
The meal loses memory.
But when two people arrive at the table with covered pots,
when discipline has preserved the seasoning,
when hunger has been trained rather than indulged,
the first bite does not merely satisfy.
It speaks.
It tells the story of restraint.
It honours patience.
It rewards quiet strength.
Some dishes must remain covered until the right guest arrives.
Some recipes only reveal themselves within the safety of commitment.
Because sweetness, when protected, deepens.
Heat, when guided, refines.
And flavour, when shared rightly, lingers long after the plates are cleared. 🍯🍲🍇
A meal kept whole feeds more than the body.
It feeds memory.
It feeds meaning.
It feeds the soul.
Select Thoughts & Perspectives
Quite funny but very relatable!
Wow...you sure have a way with words. We need more!!!
🥰
This is an interesting story