Best 12 quotes of Sasha Martin on MyQuotes

As I stand there, staring absently at the stirring pot on the wall, I remember Greg’s words all those years ago: No one could create peace for me. Yes, I did the tough work to heal on my own. But in the process I’d missed the finer point. An insular life is just another wall. The realization rushes over me: There can be no peace without community. Real community – people to count on, and who could count on me.

But I wanted to cook. I needed to cook. Mom had raised me with the implicit understanding that cooking is the answer to all life’s vicissitudes – not just the antidote to boredom, but also a way to ward off the darker realities of grief, separation, and loneliness.

Everything depends on the moment the spice hits the pan: whether it sizzles with mouthwatering fragrance or turns to ash. Once, I thought happiness was the sizzle in the pan. But it’s not. Happiness is the spice – that fragile speck, beholden to the heat, always and forever tempered by our environment.

I don’t think the homesickness of a perpetual wanderer can ever be quenched.

In those days food was never just sustenance; the very act of cooking knit our disparate lives together.

It’s true: A slice of pound cake does wonders to thaw the coldest of days.

Most people who have had a rough background will admit there’s something unsettling about finding happiness after difficulty – that even after we unwrap this gift, we don’t know how to stop searching, rummaging, pilfering for something else. We walk haltingly through life, ready for the other shoe to drop. The question is not if, but when.

Over the years, the kitchens I grew up in and around continued to draw me in, like a moth to a flame, as though I might recapture whatever innocence I’d lost in that warm, fragrant space.

The contortions of the gargoyles were the only therapy we had.

The drinking, the skipping school – all of it – was about regaining some sort of control. That night I felt there just might be enough magic in the world to help me through constant upheaval and loss. What I didn’t realize was that the more I drank, the less in control I was.

There are mysteries buried in the recesses of every kitchen – every crumb kicked under the floorboard is a hidden memory. But some kitchens ae made of more. Some kitchens are everything.

You need a name for every stage of your life. Butterflies don’t go by ‘caterpillar’ forever.And they certainly don’t go by ‘pupa’ one second longer than they have to. You, my dear, are no longer a pupa.