Salt, Ink & Soul — Humanity Through Food Series
I’ve written before about meals and movies and the strange way they become anchors—how a plate of fried chicken and mac and cheese can turn into a place you go, not just something you eat. But there’s another piece of winter I’ve skimmed past. Something quieter. Smaller. The kind of comfort that doesn’t shout, just shows up and waits for you.
Hot chocolate.
It sounds too simple to write about. A mug of warm milk and cocoa, maybe some sugar, maybe a few marshmallows if you’re feeling generous with yourself. It doesn’t have the complexity of a slow stew or the weight of a Sunday dinner. It’s not a full meal, not a feast, not a showpiece.
But in the right moment, it’s everything.
Because there are nights in winter when the cold doesn’t just sit on your skin—it finds its way into your chest. Nights when the wind outside feels personal, when the dark comes a little too early and stays a little too long. Nights when you’re not sure if you’re tired or lonely or just worn thin from carrying yourself through another year.
On those nights, hot chocolate is less about flavor and more about permission.
Permission to pause.
Permission to slow down.
Permission to hold something warm when you don’t quite know how to hold yourself.
It doesn’t really matter how you make it.
You may be the kind of person who pulls out a saucepan, warms the milk slowly, and whisks in cocoa, sugar, and a pinch of salt, like a small ceremony. Maybe you’re standing in the kitchen with the microwave humming, a torn packet in one hand and a spoon in the other, watching the powder dissolve into something richer than it has any right to be.
Scratch-made or instant, cheap packet or gourmet—it almost doesn’t matter.
Because what hot chocolate really gives you isn’t just taste.
It’s a ritual.
For me, there’s usually a screen involved.
A movie.
Usually a familiar one.
The kind you return to in December, the way other people return to a family home.
It could be a Christmas special you’ve seen every year since childhood.
It could be a romantic comedy that has nothing to do with the holidays, but still feels like winter because of when you first watched it.
Maybe it’s something you stumbled onto one rough December and never let go of because it carried you through a night you didn’t want to face alone.
The details change, but the pattern remains the same.
You queue up the movie.
You make the hot chocolate.
You sit.
And somewhere in that simple routine—screen glowing, cocoa cooling, blanket pulled up just enough—the world outside gets a little quieter. The worries don’t vanish, but they lose their sharp edges. The ache doesn’t disappear, but it stops feeling like it’s trying to swallow you whole.
You’re not fixed.
But you’re held.
We love to romanticize big gestures this time of year: grand gifts, huge gatherings, the perfect table arranged like a magazine spread. But most of us are kept alive by smaller, humbler things.
A text from a friend.
A song we forgot we needed.
A mug of something warm between our hands on a night when the cold feels like too much.
Hot chocolate is one of those small mercies.
It doesn’t demand conversation. It doesn’t care if you’re dressed right, if your house is clean, if you’ve “made the most” of the season. It doesn’t ask you to perform joy.
It just asks you to sit down, breathe, and let yourself be warmed.
That’s probably why it’s worth writing about.
In a year where everything feels loud—news, opinions, expectations—this little ritual stays soft. You don’t have to earn it. You don’t have to deserve it. You just have to be willing to stand in a kitchen for a few minutes and deliberately choose to be gentle with yourself.
You choose a mug.
You choose a movie.
You choose not to rush.
And for a little while, you remember what it feels like to be cared for, even if you’re the only one in the room.
So no, hot chocolate isn’t complicated.
It’s not fancy.
It’s not the kind of thing people brag about making.
But in the heart of winter, when the air is sharp and the nights are long, it becomes something more than a drink.
It becomes a way of saying to yourself:
You’re still here.
You still deserve warmth.
You can make a little of it with your own hands.
And sometimes, on a cold Saturday night with a good movie playing and the wind pressing against the windows, that’s enough.
Kyle J. Hayes
kylehayesblog.com
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Salt, Ink, & Soul Hot Chocolate recipe
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