I grew up very poor.

So I did. And gradually, that notebook filled up with dishes we made together: stews, baked fish, roasted vegetables, homemade pasta sauces, and even desserts like banana bread. Every time we completed a meal, I wrote down how we did it. I asked questions, tried new things. When I wasn’t cooking, I was thinking about it. For the first time in my life, I had something that felt like my own special gift.

Over the years, things changed. My mom worked odd jobs, saving every spare dollar. We never became wealthy, but we had enough to keep us going. And my relationship with Ms. Allen continued to grow. I ended up babysitting Zara’s younger siblings on weekends. I helped Ms. Allen clean the kitchen after big family gatherings. Sometimes I would drop by with groceries if I found a good sale at the market.

One day, right after my sixteenth birthday, Ms. Allen pulled me aside and handed me a sealed envelope. I opened it to find a gift certificate for a culinary workshop in town—a workshop for teens interested in exploring cooking as a career. “I know it’s not something huge,” she said, “but I think you’ll really enjoy it. The workshop is with a local chef who teaches the basics of professional kitchens.”

Continue reading…