I have my favorite memory: morning, grandma, warm hands, and the smell of freshly toasted bread.
I was five. I sat on a stool with my feet in the air, waiting for the butter to melt and the jam to warm up a little…
And here it is — the first piece, sweet, soft, sincere.
Now I sometimes cook the same way. Not for someone. For myself. To remember how small I am inside 💕
These taste moments are not about recipes. They are about warmth. About hands that cared. About a home that remained in the heart 🏡🍓🫶
And when I someday cook something like this for someone special, I will say: "This is not just breakfast. This is a part of me." 🌷🍽️💗