What happens when food becomes ritual again

Oh friends. I want to paint a picture of life lately.

For a long time, I cooked just to survive. Food was something to get through the day, something to check off a list. I made what was convenient, and I bought what was convenient, too. And that made sense for a season. But the more I settle in at the farmstead, and the more groceries I deliver, the more I can feel that this isn’t how I want to eat anymore.

For years, I thought of myself as a homesteader. That identity came with stockpiling food, cooking for others, making sure there was always enough. Enough jars, enough meals, enough “just in case.” Somewhere along the way, I stopped cooking for myself — for what I actually like to eat, for how I want to feel when I sit down at the table. And the busier I became, the more unsettled my life felt, the easier it was to slip back into old habits.

Lately, though, something has been shifting. As I settle more fully into this place, I find myself moving away from the word homesteader and toward farmsteader. We touched on that a bit in last week’s post, but the change feels mostly internal. It’s less about what I do and more about how I want my days to feel.

I want my life to feel a little more elevated, a little more intentional. Not fancy — just considered. Clean lines. Fewer piles. Less noise. I love beautiful things. I love decorating. But I want everything I keep to have a reason for being here. I like structure. I like groundedness. I like making things from scratch, but I want those things to be made with care and presence, not urgency.

The other day, I drove past a house with a yard full of things — cardboard boxes, hoses, tubes, bits and pieces scattered everywhere. There were signs of good intentions: bee boxes, maybe chickens. And it made me pause. Not in judgment, exactly, but in clarity. I realized how much my own heart wants order and softness alongside usefulness. When I imagine farmsteading, I think of gentle woman farmers, of raised beds and paths you can walk barefoot on, of fences that are as lovely as they are functional. I think of taking what you have and shaping it into something that feels beautiful to live with.

That’s what I’m doing with my chicken coop now. It looks like a mess in this phase — construction always does — but I can already picture what it will become. A space that’s tidy and warm and a little charming. Something that feels good to step into. Something that belongs.

And food is no different. For a long time, especially living here in Knoxville, convenience ruled everything. There’s a Walmart down the street. Fast food everywhere. Grocery stores on every corner. It’s easy to default to whatever gets you through the day the fastest. This isn’t my forever place, but it’s where I am right now, and I want to live well here — not just efficiently.

So I’ve been asking myself how to make food feel beautiful but convenient without it being overly processed and overly complicated.

One answer has been slowing down how I shop. I don’t want to buy food on a whim anymore. I want to plan meals around the seasons, around what feels good in my body, around what I actually enjoy eating. I didn’t grow a garden this year, but there are plans for 2026, and that is something to look forward to. For now, I’m working with what I can source and store thoughtfully.

I’ve been stocking my pantry differently — nuts, dried fruit, grains that are easy to cook, vinegars for sauces and dressings. Simple things. Useful things. And then I pour them into glass jars and then add a handwritten label (note to self-put label maker on your wish list!). Not in huge quantities like I used to, but in small, manageable batches. A couple bags of dried fruit. A bag of nuts. One larger bag of something I love and will use often, like cashews. They’re expensive, so I buy one and make it last. There’s something incredibly soothing about seeing your food this way — visible, cared for, ready to be used. It changes how I cook. It changes how I eat.

Shopping has changed, too. In smaller towns, it’s easier to pop into a farm market and build your meals around what’s there. Here, the markets are farther away — twenty or thirty minutes — and it takes more intention to make them part of the rhythm of the week. Winter makes it even quieter. But there’s also abundance here in another way. Plenty of grocery stores, plenty of options. I’ve narrowed down the ones that align with how I want to eat, and between those and the markets when I can get to them, I’m finding my way back to shopping once a week. Planning. Cooking with purpose. That alone feels like a deep exhale.

What’s surprised me most is how good it feels to cook for myself again. For a long time, I cooked for others and according to their tastes. Somewhere along the way, I lost touch with my own instincts — with seasonal ingredients, good pantry staples, the joy of throwing things together just to see if they work. I laugh at myself sometimes, trying to remember how I made something so I can recreate it. But I love that process. And when a recipe feels like mine, I like sharing it with you here. I like taking photos, capturing a moment, and offering that feeling to you, dear friend.

It’s not just the food. It’s the rituals around it. Coming home and deciding to make yogurt instead of doing anything else. Cleaning the kitchen before bed. Turning on a lamp instead of the overhead light. Keeping things organized enough that my mind can rest. When there’s clutter, I feel it immediately. Once things are in their place, I breathe easier. I’m not rigid about it — I just know how I function best, especially in the kitchen.

Even what I’m reading has been part of this shift. I’ve been moving slowly through Pamela Anderson’s cookbook and Ina Garten’s memoir and both feel like companions rather than projects. Pamela’s book speaks to her love of good ingredients and feeding the people she loves. She’s vegan, which I’m not, but the care she brings to her food resonates deeply with me. It makes me think about how I source ingredients, how I store them, how I honor them.

And Ina — well, she’s been with me for years. Reading her story now feels like sitting with an old friend. Her travels, her life in Europe, the way her work unfolded over time — it all reminds me that good food is often simple, rooted in place, and meant to be shared. I read a little at a time, almost every day, and let it sink in.

All of this feels connected. The food. The space. The pace. The quiet knowing that I don’t need to live the way I once did to feel secure. I can choose beauty. I can choose intention. I can tend to my kitchen — and my life — in a way that feels like coming home.

‘til next time
-k
xoxo