In the days after loss, it isn’t always the big moments that hurt the most. It’s the small, ordinary ones—reaching for the phone, setting an extra place at the table, or standing in the kitchen unsure of what to do with your hands. That’s when this recipe became more than food. It became comfort. It became something steady when everything else felt unbalanced.
Cooking has a way of grounding us. Measuring, stirring, waiting—it gives the mind a place to rest. This recipe was one I returned to again and again, not because it fixed the pain, but because it reminded me that nourishment still mattered. That warmth still existed. That memories could live on in simple, familiar flavors.
Every step carries a quiet reminder: love doesn’t disappear. It changes shape. It shows up in routines, in traditions, in dishes we make when words are too hard to find. Preparing this recipe became a way to honor what was lost while still caring for what remains.
If you’re making this today, know that it’s okay to feel whatever comes up. Let the kitchen be a safe place. Let the process be slow. And let this recipe remind you that even in grief, there can be moments of comfort—soft, simple, and real.
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