I have always believed that true intimacy sounds quiet. It does not like loud phrases and long toasts. It hides in those moments where you do not need to say "I love you" or "stay". It dissolves between the smell of cooking food 🍳 and someone else's breath behind your back.

I learned to eat alone early. And I understood early that food is not just a taste, but also an opportunity to feel like someone important. As a child, I thought that if you cook something beautiful, it means you are an adult. My first attempt to surprise someone was a failure: burnt pasta, cheese that didn’t melt, and a spoonful of tomato paste stolen from my mother’s refrigerator. But I loved this ritual so much: setting the table, even if no one was coming.

Now I think that those who know how to eat alone know how to love sincerely. Because no one can give you a taste if you don’t know what you need.

I love feeding silently. I love it when someone tries a spoonful of something hot and looks not at the plate, but at me. I love this look of “more.” There are no words in it. There is only taste.

There is one simple dish that I have been repeating for many years. Not because it is complicated, but because it is my way of saying “I am here.” I am writing down the recipe here – maybe someone will try it at a silent table someday.

It's very simple: rice, a little chicken or fish (I usually use chicken) 🍗, lots of garlic, a drop of butter and a little white wine 🍷. Everything is fried with almost no oil, so that a light smell of fried rice and garlic remains. I put small bowls on the table. Sometimes a couple of sprigs of fresh herbs 🌿. Sometimes a slice of lime. But the main thing is not to rush to eat.

When I cook, I always think about people. Not about those I've lost, but about those who could sit opposite me. And it's strange - usually someone comes when the food is already ready. Sometimes - even if you didn't invite anyone. Maybe smells really can call.

I always have rice in the cupboard. It's like an anchor. If everything is falling apart, you can cook rice, and the kitchen will become your home again. I like to feel how it slowly absorbs water, how its taste changes from grain to grain. At such moments I understand: life is also cooked on a slow fire. Fast is not tasty.

Sometimes I think: how many people eat silently now? How many people bite their lips, tasting something hot? How many people remember someone's fingers on their neck, while a spoon of rice touches their lips?

Silence is not about loneliness. Silence is when no one interferes with your sense of taste. I hold on to this tightly. I don't want to explain - I just want to hear someone eating next to me. Sometimes that's enough.