Slow is Sexy

On food, sensuality, and the gift of being held

Dear friend,

I didn’t start cooking because I loved it. I started because it was all I had left to give.

I had always loved to cook—learning from my mother and her mother before her. Their gift of hospitality was something I respected, cherished. But in my first postpartum season, everything left me. My senses dulled. My spark for creativity disappeared.

I couldn’t paint. I could barely write.

But I could roast a chicken. I could slice cucumbers for small hands. I could plate a meal and call it beautiful.

In a season when everything else felt hollow—creativity, energy, even joy—food became the one place I could still show up. And as a mother, I had to.

Slowly, dinner became an offering—first to God, then to those I love most, and slowly but surely, to myself.

At first, it was just about survival. Trying. Practicing. But eventually, the kitchen became my canvas—one I could return to again and again. A place to layer texture and heat, to get quiet and intentional, to fall back in love with my senses. It taught me how to feed myself, not just in body but in spirit. It gave me a rhythm. And somewhere along the way, it became sensual. Sacred. Sexy.

That’s the thing about survival—it teaches you to pare everything down to what’s essential. And at first, that was all I could manage: something warm, something nourishing, something simple and true.

I want to praise God in this moment—because there was redemption. He didn’t give up on me, even when I had.

He designed our appetites—not just for food, but for beauty, for meaning, for connection. Mine had fled, swallowed by shame and disorientation. But in His kindness, I grew hungry again.

At first, it was physical—just remembering to eat. Then, slowly, hunger returned to every part of me.

And with time, I trusted Him.

The return of my creativity wasn’t just recovery—it was redemption. A holy collaboration. An act of love. Evidence of His kindness drawing me back to life.

Over time, something shifted. My heart shifted. What began as survival became revival. The kitchen became a place not just to show up, but to feel again. Creativity returned—quietly, like a tremble beneath the noise. My senses woke up.

And with them, desire.

Because sexy can’t return until we’re fed—until we’re met in rhythm. You can fake it, sure—but your body always knows the truth of where you’re at.

Sexy—I've learned, and I think you know—is slow. It’s presence. Intention. It’s the opposite of the rush we’re all drowning in. I’m so sick of fast. The scroll, the sheet pan, the incessant reaching. I want something that takes time. That genuinely nourishes. That opens you gently. I want to make something that’s worth waiting for.

There’s a kind of clarity that comes when you slow down enough to taste your life.

In this new rhythm, I began to see protein as the focal point. And in that space of learning, I let the supporting ingredients fall into place—not to compete, but to complement. By focusing on that single element, I found I could create something truly worthwhile.

Fish, to me, is the most forgiving of focal points.

In my new book, I write about the versatility of something pure enough to be eaten raw. Oh what a gift.

It’s delicate yet grounding, clean yet rich—honest in a way I’ve needed. In the manuscript, fish keeps surfacing—not just as food, but as symbol: of nourishment, of offering, of being seen and received as you are. No need to dress it up. Just salt, occasionally heat, and precious time.

This week, we made Chilean sea bass. It’s buttery and simple and so good it hushes your kids. I had Saudade by Thievery Corporation playing while I cooked—an album I return to every spring. Its pace soothes the scatter in my mind, and its soft, slow tones feel like they’re ushering in the warmth of summer. It always brings me back to when I was first married to my man—bare feet, open windows, learning how to feed each other and make a home.

So here it is.
A recipe, yes. But also an offering.

From my table to yours.

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Play something that makes you feel. Cook slowly. Eat slowly.

Let this one remind you that you’re allowed to feel everything again.