Some meals were disasters but with every new recipe I tried, my enjoyment of the process increased. Part of the enjoyment came in the music I would play as a constant companion in the kitchen, the amazing realisations and lessons that would sometimes drop into my spirit as I was in some cooking zone, and the fact that I had a partner who was always grateful that I had cooked.

Zama Nkosi-Mabuye in her essay 𝘌𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦

This relationship with fruit and fruit trees was cultivated through my granny’s garden. My granny didn’t have a job, but it’s a fact that she worked harder than any woman I know. A widow at 38 in 1960’s apartheid South Africa with no income and 7 kids, the oldest of whom was 14; sitting here in my flat, free as one can be, with savings for a rainy day, a job, and only first world worries, it hits me that I’m now the same age she was when she had to take charge of her household.

Tamara O’Reilly in her essay 𝘏𝘰𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘺’𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴

I was, however, torn between my love for the environment which society suggested should be reflected in eating veggies over meat, and my body; which thrived off lots of meat consumption. I didn’t believe that the optimal diet for my human health meant destroying the planet.

Camilla Wolfson in her essay 𝘔𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴