I’ve always loved being in the kitchen. Maybe not always for the noblest reasons—when I was a kid, I mostly lurked nearby to sneak cookie dough or swipe a spoonful of brownie batter when my mom wasn’t looking. But somewhere in those moments, the joy of cooking started to stick.
As a teenager, I started experimenting with whatever we had in the kitchen. It wasn’t always gourmet (read: barely edible), but it was creative. I made dips out of anything, combined ingredients no one should ever combine (peanut butter, grape jelly, and maple syrup? Yeah, that happened), and basically treated the kitchen like a sandbox. Not everything worked. Actually, most things didn’t. But the creative itch was always there.
As an adult, that creativity matured. I started grilling, making soups from scratch, and throwing together dishes that occasionally blew my own mind—and then promptly vanished from existence because I never wrote them down. Measuring? Rarely. I cook by feel, by instinct, and by taste. Chili became my signature dish: a mix of ground beef, sausage links, and Italian sausage that gives every bite its own texture surprise. It’s messy and magical.
But somewhere along the way, cooking stopped being fun.
When my back pain hit its worst, I could barely stand at the stove. Even five minutes upright felt like an hour. Cooking became a chore. And then it became impossible. The kitchen, once a place of creativity and joy, turned into another reminder of what I couldn’t do anymore.
Then came the surgery.
My doctor made it clear: I needed to lose weight to improve my chances of success. I was carrying more than my body could handle, and we both knew it. The pain had reached a breaking point. I wasn’t functioning. I couldn’t work, couldn’t serve, couldn’t move without strain and frustration.
He initially wanted to wait, but after giving it more thought about where I was, he understood. Getting it done ASAP became the only move.
It was a fast turnaround. Two weeks later, I was in the OR.
Now, post-surgery, I still feel pain—but it’s different. I can stand again. I can move. I can walk for more than five minutes without needing to sit down. And best of all?
Cooking is fun again.
But here’s the thing: I’m not trying to get back to the old me. I don’t want a comeback—I want a rebuild—but I still want it to taste good.
The old me had bad habits. I ate poorly. I didn’t move enough. I lived with unresolved pain—physical, mental, spiritual. A comeback means returning to that version. A rebuild means starting fresh.
That’s what this season is about: rebuilding my body, my routines, my spirit. I’m eating differently (Keto-style, as recommended by my surgeon). I’m walking. I’m creating again—not just in the kitchen, but in my life.
And I’m doing it with help. ChatGPT has been a surprisingly powerful tool in this journey. Together, we built a custom mostly-keto plan, a grocery list, and even a working cookbook—which is coming soon, by the way. Some meals didn’t make the cut (RIP almond flour pizza—though honestly, that one got vetoed before I even tried it… yuck!), but the process is working.
I’m learning. I’m growing. And I’m reclaiming joy, one meal at a time.
The cookbook isn’t done yet (perfectionism alert), but it’s close. When it is, I’ll release it here—not as a polished product, but as an offering. A “here’s what is working for me, maybe it helps you too” kind of thing.
It is still very early in the process so I can’t claim mission success—but it is working, and so far I’ve lost 7 pounds. My lack of patience (yep, still working on that) says I should be down 20 pounds already—but that’s not reality.
This isn’t a comeback.
This is a rebuild.
And it tastes like progress.
