What was your first moment of consciousness this morning? The sound of an alarm clock? The feeling of a toddler whose presence you felt before you even opened your eyes? If you’re really lucky, maybe it was the sun in your eyes?

For Dom, it was the smell of garlic, gently frying outside. Then sounds - a burner catches, the scrape of an aluminum pan, the soft shuffling of small feet, rain on the roof of their home harmonizing with the sound of rain on the roof of their small outdoor kitchen in Thailand. 

Still bleary-eyed, but now awake enough to put his feet on the floor, Dom follows another scent  — jasmine rice, steaming, floral and comforting - through a doorway and into the morning light. 

Predictably, she is already there. Dom’s grandmother squats near the burner, reaching for the soy sauce in its place in line with the other small glass jars of cooking essentials. 

When she turns and sees Dom, her beloved grandson - her precious son - her face opens into a smile and the beauty of her youth, a beauty that lifted her from poverty, glows undimmed. 

Years later, Dom and Sherri’s kids come home on Friday evenings in their suburban North Carolina home to the same smell - but much more significantly, to the same stability, the same predictability, the same safe assurance of a loving home where they are cherished and prioritized - that Dom awoke to a generation ago.

This is the story of a woman who changed the future of generations. Tiny as she was, she stood in the path of generational addictions and said, like Gandalf to the Balrog, “You shall not pass.”

Because of the way she loved and raised Dom, her grandson turned son, a legacy was changed for generations.

Read more about Sherri on Thai Foodie.com

Email Sherri at [email protected]

Learn about Sherri's cooking classes

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If I had to pick a word for my 2025, it would be bittersweet.

This is now the 5th time I’m releasing the Christmas Pudding episode - I love it that much!

But this year, it’s hitting a little bit differently. 

I’ve always loved this episode because it’s fun and funny and full of laughter. The conversation was a cherished opportunity to connect with a friend from my youth that lives across the world from me. 

But in light of our experiences this year, it’s landing a little differently for me.

This year, I found myself tuned in to a note that’s been right there all along, underneath the humor — the tenderness of Robert and Lisa’s memories. 

And I’m wondering - How didn’t I hear it before?

The way these traditions didn’t just hold joy for Robert and Lisa, but also the pain of absence and loss? 

Like the thestrals in Harry Potter, the truth is, we can’t see what we can’t see. 

But sooner or later, the events of life will afford all of us, hopefully, an ever expanding vision. 

And here’s that word, bittersweet, again - In a dish, bitterness doesn’t cancel the sweet. Rather, orange zest will balance - more than, it will sharpen and amplify the sugar in a dish, allowing us to taste it more fully. 

And so, as life changes us, expands us, and makes us more attuned to other notes, may we not forget the purity, the clarity, the melody of life’s sweetest moments, which are so often found in our traditions. 

But with some pain and in some seasons, this is not reasonable or respectful 

And in that case, may the bitterness of this broken world point us — as Robert and Lisa do at the end of this episode — to the eternal love of God.

Emmanuel, God with us - So gloriously on display, each and every Christmas.

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If you listen closely, you can almost hear the soft rattle of a bicycle coasting over cobblestones, weaving past tractors and farm fields on its way toward a small German village kitchen. 

A little girl, Heidrun, is on that bike and, as her hair streams behind her in the wind, she can hardly hear anything herself. Her head is full of questions about what she’ll gather or forage with her Oma today - and what they’ll bake when they return to her kitchen - and hoping that, earlier this morning, while the moon was still high, Oma made her perfect yeast cake with soft streusel crumbles. 

When she walks into the kitchen, Heidrun is delighted to see that - yes! Oma’s yeast cake has already risen, baked, and is now cooling in the window. And she’s comforted by the familiar sight of fresh quark wrapped in a muslin cloth, dripping its healthy whey slowly into a bowl below, where it will be saved and later added to bread. 

Heidrun’s Oma was steady, disciplined, neat, tidy, and hardworking. She wasn’t talkative and she never used a scale. Nevertheless, she managed to teach generations, Heidrun included, the precise art of German Baking, an art which Heidrun has now put into book form with images, explanations, careful instructions. 

And at the center of today’s story - and so many recipes in this book - is a cornerstone of German baking. Quark is a soft, rich, creamy, protein and calcium-rich, slightly tangy cheese essential to both sweet and savory German dishes. 

To be honest, when I started the process of creating this episode, I thought quark was too technical, difficult, or time-consuming for me and thought, “Well, quark will be fun to talk about, but I’ll just use the substitutions that Heidrun mentions.” 

However!   

Much like her Oma did for her, Heidrun drew me out of my comfort zone through her quiet enthusiasm, empowering knowledge, and gentle insistence that it's always worth learning a new skill and making a recipe the right way.

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Mesophilic Cultures

Calcium Chloride

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For many of us, Athens is inseparable from ancient—towering colonnades blinding white in the Mediterranean sun, rowdy crowds packed into massive amphitheatres, then those same crowds dispersing into balmy evenings washed in golden light, the 195 The Honest Magiría and Its Humble Chickpea Soupsmell of olive oil and roasted chickpeas drifting through the air.

But what about the Athens of the last eighty years? The last thirty or ten? A city shaped by occupation, migration, rebuilding, prosperity and globalization, then crisis and austerity?

Today’s guest, Diane Kochilas, has written a cookbook that does what I now consider essential for any cookbook I recommend: it is a book only she could have written. Part memoir and part modern history of her adopted city, Athens, she writes with the authority of the food journalist she once was, sharing dishes from over 100 Athenian restaurants (and modern home kitchens). The book contains the fresh recipes of today’s Athens, shaped by new arrivals and new ideas.

But in this episode, as in her cookbook, Diane honors Diporto—a restaurant that has steadfastly weathered all of these changes, remaining a constant for every class and community in Athens. And we celebrate Diporto’s simple five-ingredient soup made from  those staples of ancient Athenian cuisine, chickpeas and olive oil. It’s a dish that reminds us again of the power of food to connect every version and every iteration of a city into one continuous and beautiful story.

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Diane's Website: www.DianeKochilas.com

Buy her latest book Athens

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Today’s guest Lynn describes Maria — just like a glowing fairy come to life: barely five feet tall, vivacious, chatty and outgoing, and as charming as they come.

So imagine this tiny Maria 100 years ago, just a teenager tripping over the cobblestone streets of Budapest, chatting with her friends, then opening an heavy, ornate and entering a cafe - 

And quickly, let’s replace our images of a “cafe” - the cafes of 20th century Budapest were grand, glittering spaces.  Picture soaring ceilings multiple stories high, crystal chandeliers, marble pillars, rich, heavy window treatments, carved staircases, and waiters in tuxes.

Tucked in the corners were the who’s who of Budapest - poets, intellectuals, and artists.But Maria and her girlfriends were simply there to do their homework — giggling, whispering, and flirting like any teenagers over the clinking of silver spoons against porcelain coffde cups. 

Maria, the daughter of a cafe owner herself, knew and loved all the famous cafes - and they loved her. In fact, as family legend has it, she charmed the pastry chefs into sharing their best recipes for tortes and cakes.

A century later, Lynn opened a nondescript box and discovered fifty-two of Maria’s recipes, handwritten in Hungarian. Well — fifty-one of Maria’s recipes. There was one, a simple Walnut Torte, just like what would have been served in those grand cafes, written in English - not by Maria, but by Maria’s daughter-in-law, Janice, who is Lynn’s mother-in-law. 

That recipe card from became the basis of the cake Lynn has dubbed “Mother-in-Law Cake” and she shares with us today.

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Lynn's Website: Family Tree Foodie

Lynn's Hungarian Heirloom Walnut Torte on her website

Email Lynn: [email protected]

Lynn's Instagram: @familytreefoodie

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The Second World War has started and teenage Dolores stands over a small suitcase laying open on her bed in Columbus, Ohio. She slept in this room through her mother’s three years of illness and the tragic night her mother died, when she was just fifteen. 

Some nights, Dolores falls asleep quickly after long days of managing school and a home at that tender age. Other nights, she can't sleep, thinking of her handsome fiancé, Bill Wood — a very young man himself, standing on the brink of battle. But tonight, after Dolores tucked a small white New Testament and a white handkerchief on top of her modest clothing and clicked the suitcase closed, she sat down on the bed and looked around the room as if to say goodbye - not to the room, but to her girlhood. For tonight she may not sleep at all, as she cherishes a very secret hope in her heart - the hope that she will return home to this room as a married woman. Because if all goes well on her trip to Washington State, she will marry Bill. He will go to war as a husband, while she waits, prays, and works for Victory Day.

Today, we hear from the youngest daughter of Dolores, who was always a homemaker first, and Bill, a career baker.

Through their many kitchens - her mother's home kitchens and her father's bakeries - Melissa traces her parent's life of steadfast love and deep devotion: to one another, to their God, and to an institution that, at times, threatened to take advantage of that devotion.

And in that crisis, it was Dolores and Bill’s love for one another — steadfast, selfless, and always protective — that preserved their hearts and family.

We start with a recipe in Dolores’s handwriting, but titled “Dad’s Apple Dumplings”. For what God joined together in Washington State more than 80 years ago, Melissa could not separate — not even when choosing a recipe. 🙂

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Let me introduce you to little Maureen — a tiny girl with glossy dark hair and big dark eyes — sitting on the counter of a kitchen on Maple Street, USA. She’s sipping a root beer float, watching the house buzz with cousins, aunts, and uncles, their laughter and teasing filling every corner. The smell of nutmeg drifts through the air; rhubarb simmers in a pot. And at the center of it all stands an older woman — though not nearly as old as you might imagine when you hear the word Grandma — effortlessly making a Lebanese feat for all of them. 

Not very many years later at all, little Maureen tiptoes into another kitchen — her own. This time, a young woman — much younger than you might imagine when you hear the word Mother — stands quietly. That same smell of nutmeg fills the air, warm and familiar, but now mingled with something tender, something sad. A handwritten recipe lies open on the counter, its corners soft from years of use. This young mother is making her mother’s favorite cookie, the one everyone calls Grandma’s Best. And though she doesn’t say it aloud, she’s remembering. 

Later, little Maureen and this young, beautiful mother sit at the table with their teacups and a single cookie on each napkin. And now, mother does remember out loud. She talks, Maureen listens, and in that quiet moment, Alice’s gentleness passes down another generation to today’s guest, marvelous Maureen, author of the best baking cookbook I've ever used, Lebanese Baking. 

Today’s episode is an exploration of grief — and creating as a response to grief - but also a celebration of three generations of highly skilled Lebanese American women who held the highest standards for themselves and the gentlest postures toward others. 

This was meant to be an episode about Grandma Alice — and it is. But perhaps nothing would please her more than knowing that, in the end, we couldn’t  tell her story without telling her daughter’s and her granddaughter’s. It turns out, it’s all one story. 

Through their lives, these cookies, and Maureen’s cookbook, Alice’s spirit, sacrifice and skill continue to shape not just her expansive family, but all of us as well.

Buy Lebanese Baking on Amazon

Buy Lebanese Baking at Schuler Books

Visit Maureen at her website www.MaureenAbood.com

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Imagine yourself standing in an English garden, peeking through a small kitchen window into a cozy kitchen. Once you’re close enough, you may even catch the faint strains of Bing Crosby on the radio. A small blonde boy and his sister sit at the table — a blue table, on a blue floor — a surprising color choice, but one that will later make sense when you learn you’re looking into the kitchen of an artist. The little boy and his sister are engrossed in their projects while their Nan takes a loaf out of the oven — and puts another in. Only then do you notice three loaves already cooling on the counter. The old woman says something to the little boy, and his face lights up as he proudly holds out his modeling clay project to his Nan.

This little boy was Sam Harris, who grew up to mirror his Nan in some of the best ways, perhaps more than he even realizes. She owned a business; he’s a serial entrepreneur (and working now on one of my favorite podcasts — more on that later). She was an artist; he is a musician. And she had a gift for making Sam and his cousins feel seen, special, and supported. Speaking personally, I’m in a community where I get to see (and benefit from!) that same gift in Sam today — a thoughtful, humble way of encouraging others.

In today’s episode, we explore all of this through a simple Pineapple Cake — “Sam’s Cake,” as his family called it. The cake was his Nan’s attempt to heal his troubles with food and to instill her old-fashioned values through nurture rather than control. 

Most of all, this episode offers a new take — an inversion, if you will — on the old adage “It’s better to give than to receive.” 

Sam’s Pineapple Cake tells the story of a family, their matriarch, the values she passed on, and the ways she received the gift of those values in return.

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Picture a sun-drenched courtyard between two homes in Punjab where the air is thick with the aroma of cumin and simmering beans. Farmers work the adjacent fields while women move among each other, peeling onions, chopping tomatoes, and stirring a pot over open flames while sipping steaming hot cups of chai, gossiping and laughing. The children run in playful chaos, long, glossy braids bouncing on their backs as they weave around the women at work. Finally, Rajma Chawal, a hearty, spicy dish of kidney beans, is finished. The farmers return from the fields and children circle their grandmother. Together, they dive with all 5 fingers into their steaming bowls of curry.

This is the scene today’s guest, Lopa, pictures so clearly when she imagines Auntie Aruna as a child back in Punjab, the home Auntie left forever as a young woman. 

Lopa and Auntie Aruna didn’t meet until many decades later, when Auntie was in her 60’s. And really, she was Lopa’s landlady, not her relative. 

Mind you, she was not a profitable landlady - she made no money whatsoever off Lopa, only charging her enough to cover a rise in HOA fees that she and her husband couldn’t afford.

Auntie was, as Lopa says, a typical Punjabi auntie—boisterous, generous, and fiercely nurturing. She was a teacher, best friend, and grandmother to Lopa. In her Bombay kitchen, Auntie taught Lopa to cook while perched on her pillow-lined barstool directing, gossiping, laughing, just like the woman in that courtyard all those years ago. 

Auntie’s Rajma Chawal has become Lopa’s signature dish. In a country with so many distinct culinary identities, this humble dish helped Lopa discover so much more than just confidence in the kitchen - it helped her develop her own voice and a sense of identity and belonging. And more even than that, Rajma Chawal takes Lopa right into the heart of Auntie’s Punjabi culture, the belief that cooking is meant to be shared.

Visit Lopa at her website Away in the Kitchen

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Imagine a Tennessee dairy farm - and then there’s a cellar with a packed dirt floor and shelves made of wood, heavy with jars of home-canned produce—including the blackberry jam Judith and her sisters smothered on their mother’s famous Sally Lunn bread.

Listening to Judith describe her mother, Joann, I was challenged as a hostess but especially as a mother. I DO love welcoming people into my home and I love cooking for them! Nevertheless, I often grumble when plans interrupt my day or slightly panic if I haven’t had time to prepare the abundant meals I like to serve. It’s my kid’s who see, feel, and often carry my stress, even if my guest’s don’t. 

Joann, however—a farmer’s wife who gained seven dependents in the first seven years of her marriage—never seemed rushed, overwhelmed, or frustrated to Judith or her other children. Instead, day after day, she calmly built a life of humble hospitality, generous meals, and deep relationships around a table that, by Judith’s account, was never empty.

Perhaps the secret to her steadiness was her view that hospitality wasn’t about entertaining or perfection—it was simply about welcoming others in. But I suspect it was more than that oft-repeated “secret” - I think it was about her true commitment to friendship. Even now, at 90, Judith’s mother carries the same purpose - to welcome and befriend others - into every new season of life.

For Judith, simple Sally Lunn bread—rich, soft, and baked in a Bundt pan—holds her mother’s legacy of hospitality, of showing up, and providing comfort. Here’s Judith, reflecting on her mother and the bread that tells her story. We begin with the first time Judith’s mother encountered this now-beloved loaf...

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