Salt, Ink, & Soul
Writing on food, family, and identity
“I write so that our food, our struggles, and our stories are never forgotten, but carried forward as legacy.”
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Felix the Fox Collection
Gentle adventures from the Whispering Woods — stories of courage, friendship, and resilience for children, and for the adults who read beside them.
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The Taste of Home, The Taste of Here
There are nights when homesickness sneaks up on me. Not the kind that makes you want to book a ticket and run back, but the quieter version — the one that comes when you’re alone in your apartment in Albuquerque and your body aches for food that no one here makes. I wasn’t raised on
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Waiting for Pumpkin Spice
I have a sweet tooth no matter the season. If you’ve been following my posts for a while, you already know about my disastrous history with cake — failed layers that sank like bad relationships, frosting that slid off like it had somewhere better to be. Cake and I have an uneasy truce: I respect
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When the Air Turns in Albuquerque
There’s a moment in Albuquerque when the air shifts and you know — without anyone needing to tell you — that summer is over. It’s not dramatic. There’s no storm to announce it, no hard edge to the sky. But one morning you step outside, and the heat that’s been pressing on you all summer
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The Struggle Has a Voice
I am writing this beneath the blood moon. At least I think it is — the night sky glows strangely, like it’s carrying a secret. It feels right to write tonight, because what I’m carrying feels like a secret too. The struggle is real. I hear that phrase all the time. It’s become a punchline,
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The Death of the Family Reunion
There was a time when the family reunion was a sovereign nation. It was its own country—borderless, sprawling, stitched together by folding chairs and potato salad, the language of inside jokes and side-eyes, the music of Stevie Wonder & Michael Jackson playing under the shade of Pine trees. A time when cousins you hadn’t
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The Last Ingredient House
I was just running in for a couple of things — Mozzarella cheese, maybe some crushed tomatoes. The kind of trip you make when you’ve already decided the night’s ritual: I was going to make pizza. And by making pizza, I mean the whole thing — crust proofed over two days, sauce coaxed slowly from
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