Cooking isn’t a job—it’s my way of loving

I didn’t grow up wanting to cook.In fact, as a kid, I hated that my grandmother Ana ran a restaurant out of our house.The kitchen was always full. People came and went. Plates never stopped.But without knowing it, she planted something in me that’s now blooming.Ana wasn’t big on words.But her way of loving was clear: she cooked, she served, she paid attention.And without realizing it, I learned the same.That love doesn’t always have to be spoken. Sometimes, it’s a hot plate placed in front of someone.That’s why, even though I’ve worked in restaurants, I never enjoyed it.When it’s forced, something in me shuts down.When it’s natural, something in me lights up.On September 19th, I took my first real cooking class.It was a gift from my wife for our anniversary.We made Mexican churros and café de olla.That day something clicked.I realized that cooking doesn’t have to be a job.It can be joy.It can be mine.And on November 1st, I taught my first cooking class.Me.Sharing what I know.Not as a chef. Not as an expert.But as someone who loves to serve and create from the heart.I like to cook freely.I don’t need to follow exact recipes.All it takes is opening the fridge and seeing what’s there—and somehow, my mind starts to mix flavors.And more often than not, it turns out delicious.That makes me proud.Knowing I can create something from scratch, just with instinct and love.Today I know that cooking is my love language.It’s my way of being vulnerable without having to say everything out loud.It’s how I connect. How I care. How I show up.I don’t need titles.All I need is a kitchen, the people I love—and the desire to give a little piece of myself in every plate.