Cravings Satisfied: The Art of the ‘Healing’ Lunch

We often talk about food in terms of fuel, but there are moments when a meal is something much deeper. It is a pause button. It is a sensory anchor. It is, quite literally, a way to feed the parts of ourselves that feel a bit weary from the transitions of life.

In my recent reflections, I’ve shared that it’s okay to let go when the weight of uncertainty becomes too much. But while you are in the process of moving on, you still have to take care of the person doing the moving. For me, today, that looked like a table full of comfort.

The Menu of Self-Care

When the day feels "heavy," I find that a variety of textures and familiar flavors can act like a warm hug for the nervous system. Today’s spread was a deliberate choice to satisfy every craving:

• The Creamy Comfort: A perfectly prepared Penne Carbonara. There is something about a rich sauce and savory pancetta that feels like a safety net. It’s the kind of dish that requires you to slow down and just be present with each bite.
• The Hearty Classic: A robust Spaghetti Bolognese, topped with a generous dusting of parmesan. It’s a grounded, reliable dish - much like the strength we find within ourselves to keep going.
• The Savory Crunch: A platter of golden-brown fried chicken bites served on a bed of fresh lettuce. It provided that essential "crunch" that makes a meal feel complete and satisfying.
• The Structured Bite: A toasted steak and cheese ciabatta sandwich. The crispness of the bread against the melted cheese is a reminder that even when things feel a bit messy, there is still warmth and structure to be found.

A Hiccup in a Long Song

I’ve started thinking of these difficult moments - the goodbyes, the "no contact" days, the logistics of a new horizon - as just small hiccups in a very long, beautiful song.

Sitting down to a meal like this isn't just about eating; it’s about acknowledging that "You got this." It’s about satisfying the restless energy of the soul for connection by connecting deeply with the present moment, the vibrant flavors on your tongue, and the quiet peace of your own company.

The Sacred Table

Sometimes, words on a page can say what a meal alone cannot.

I sat down after lunch and let these thoughts flow -

a reminder that we are the music,

even when the notes feel heavy.

This is for anyone sitting at their own "sacred table" today:

It’s okay to let the salt water fall,

To admit the heart is tired of the climb,

To lean against the silence of the wall

And say, “I cannot hold it all this time.”

But even as the old songs start to fade,

And "no contact" becomes the quiet rule,

There is a different kind of promise made

In a simple room, a table, and a stool.

Bless the steam that rises from the plate,

The golden crunch, the comfort of the vine,

The way the appetite can navigate

Away from shadows, back to what is fine.

For life is not a sprint toward the end,

But a melody with hiccups in the air;

A thousand broken lines we cannot mend

Are healed by breath, and bread, and self-care.

So cry your tears until the well is dry,

Then lift the fork and taste the world again.

Underneath a vast and changing sky,

You are the song—not the sorrow or the pen.

The Takeaway

If you’re going through a season of "letting go," don't forget to nourish the version of you that is staying behind to build the next chapter. Cry if you need to. Let go if it’s time. But make sure you satisfy your cravings along the way.

You’ll be fine. In fact, with a full heart (and a full stomach), you’ll be more than fine.

What is your ‘healing’ meal today? Are you feeding your spirit as much as your body? Let’s celebrate the small hiccups and the big spreads together.

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Nine Years of Distant Horizons: An Easter of Memory and Small Feasts

Easter Sunday used to be a sensory overload. It was the smell of the salt air at the beach, the rhythmic sound of the waves, and the undeniable centerpiece of any Filipino celebration: a whole Lechon, crackling and golden, surrounded by a crowd of family. No egg hunts, no pastel fluff - just the sun, the sand, and the communal joy of a feast that lasted until the stars came out.

But this year marks nearly nine years of living abroad, and the rhythm of my life has shifted into a different key.

Nine years is a long time to hold a memory. It’s long enough for the craving for lechon to become a dull ache and for the "festive" to be redefined by what is available in a different land. This Easter, there is no roar of the ocean and no roasted pig. Instead, my celebration is quiet, contained, and deeply personal: a platter of crispy Lumpiang Shanghai (Chicken Rolls) and the glossy, amber glow of Kutchinta.

The Architecture of a Long-Distance Life

Living abroad for nearly a decade teaches you a specific kind of resourcefulness. You learn that "home" isn't a permanent coordinate on a map; it’s something you carry in your suitcase and recreate on a dinner plate.

The Lumpiang Shanghai: These aren't just chicken rolls; they are a golden bridge to the past. Each crunch is a defiant "yes" to my heritage, even when I’m thousands of miles away from the family table.

The Kutchinta: Round, resilient, and sweet. Their deep orange hue reminds me of the Philippine sunsets we used to watch together from the shore.

Choosing these foods is an act of self-nurturing. After nine years, you realize that you don’t need the "whole lechon" to justify the celebration. Sometimes, the grace is found in the smaller, humble bites that say: I am still here, and I still remember.

The Silent Connection Across the Miles

Being away for so long also changes how you love. When you can’t be there in person, you live for the "unexpressed" - the connections that exist in the digital spaces and the quiet moments between messages.

In the spirit of that distance and the longing that comes with it, I found myself reflecting on the beauty of shared moments captured from afar. When you can't walk the beach together, you learn to cherish the "borrowed light."

The Borrowed Light

The horizon holds a heavy weight,

A sky divided, torn in two,

Where duty keeps your shadow straight,

But silence pulls your heart to blue.

I do not ask for words tonight,

Or promises we cannot keep;

I only crave the borrowed light

From eyes that never truly sleep.

So send the sun as it descends

Beside the one you’re bound to hold,

Where obligation starts and ends

In streaks of violet and gold.

And when the morning breaks the grey,

Beside the life you must maintain,

Send me the birth of one more day-

A crimson proof of shared, soft pain.

For in the frame, the truth is clear,

In every glow and fading line;

You show me all that you hold dear,

While giving her the rest of time.

A Different Kind of Belonging

Nine years abroad has taught me that the "Grace of Not Being Chosen" (to be there, to be present, to be part of the "usual") is that it forces you to choose yourself.

Today, my Easter isn't about the beach or the lechon. It’s about the resilience of a woman who has built a life in a new place while keeping the embers of the old one burning. It’s about the comfort of the lumpia, the sweetness of the kutchinta, and the digital glow of a sunrise sent by someone who I am thinking of from a distant world of energies.

Happy Easter to all the expats and global souls celebrating in the quiet spaces today. May you find your own version of the feast.

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Adobo in Poetry

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Chicken Adobo

I promised you once,
If you join Secret Santa,
I’d cook you chicken adobo -
Tender, savory, with just a hint of sweetness,
Like the quiet moments we share,
Like the glances we never dare to hold too long.

I picture you at the table,
Watching me stir the sauce,
Smiling as steam curls between us,
Our laughter small, soft, restrained,
The air heavy with things unsaid,
The taste of longing lingering
On the tip of every word,
On the tip of every bite.

And though we are close,
Yet never truly there,
I wait for that moment -
When the secret is ours alone,
When the promise is kept,
When the adobo is warm,
And our hearts, finally,
Might taste a little of the same heat.

Chicken Adobo: A Whisper Between Us

I asked you today,
“Do you like soy sauce?”
Pretending it was for others too,
A careful dance of words,
Hiding how much I care.

You smiled, calm,
“Either way is fine,” you said,
And my heart caught in that quiet rhythm,
The ordinary moment made extraordinary
By the gentleness in your eyes,
By the way you make even a question about sauce
Feel like a secret shared only between us.

I imagine stirring the adobo,
The aroma filling the room,
You seated across me,
Laughing softly,
And somewhere in that small, tender exchange
My quiet affection lingers,
Patiently waiting
For the moment it can be seen,
Savored, and returned.

Adobo for Two (Not Me)

I stirred the sauce with hope,
Whisked in quiet wishes,
Folded in laughter we never shared aloud,
Seasoned with the warmth I imagined
Would curl between us at the table.

I carried it to you yesterday,
A gift folded from my heart into a pot,
And you smiled, unknowing
Of the small storm it carried inside me.

Then I watched it vanish,
Passed across plates not meant for me,
Shared with another,
And the taste I had imagined
Danced somewhere else.

And still -
I will remember how it smelled,
How the steam rose like whispered secrets,
How love, even when misplaced,
Can be tender, patient, and real,
Even when it is not mine to keep.

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