I’ve been thinking about the way loneliness changes shape as you get older.

Not the dramatic loneliness people like to imagine. Not the kind that announces itself. More like the quiet kind that appears in small, practical moments. When you move somewhere new. When your friends pair off. When your calendar is full but your inner life feels strangely unvisited.

That may be part of why Dinner for One resonated with me so quickly.

If you are not familiar with her work, Sutanya fell in love with a Frenchman, moved to Paris, got divorced, and stayed. She began cooking for herself there and eventually built a podcast, book, supper club, and creative world around something many women experience but rarely articulate: what it means to care for yourself after the life you imagined falls apart.

I know that landscape too.

I have been divorced, and I remember how loaded food felt afterward. Cooking for myself did not feel simple. It felt emotional. Sometimes it felt undeserved. Sometimes it brought up too many memories at once. Food has a way of doing that. You see it, smell it, taste it, hear it. It carries people and seasons and former versions of yourself.

When I first found Sutanya’s podcast, I felt the immediate relief of hearing someone speak from inside that particular room. Not just about divorce, but about the strange intimacy of feeding yourself when no one else is there to witness it. About making it normal to buy the fresh herbs, to cook one beautiful piece of fish, to stop treating care as something that only becomes meaningful when it’s shared with a table full of other people.

Recently, I spoke with Sutanya, and the conversation felt like sitting at a kitchen counter with someone who understands the interior logistics of womanhood. The kind of understanding that does not require much explanation.

Her story is familiar in outline. She moved to Paris for love, got divorced, and stayed. But what struck me most was not the headline. It was what came after the ending.

She didn’t just rebuild her life. She rebuilt the daily rituals that make a life feel worth living. And in her case, it started with the small, tender act of cooking for herself.

Not everyone realizes how loaded that can be.

Sutanya told me that after her marriage ended, she struggled to cook for herself at all. Not because she did not know how, but because some part of her did not believe she deserved it.

“For years, I didn’t think I deserved it. If I was only cooking for myself, what was the point? I didn’t feel worthy enough to cook for myself.”

There is a particular kind of heartbreak in that sentence. Not only the heartbreak of divorce, but the quieter heartbreak of how many women are taught that care becomes meaningful only when it’s directed outward. As if devotion counts only when it’s offered to someone else.

That feeling is not limited to divorce. But divorce has a way of exposing it.

It reveals how much of your identity may have been organized around being useful, accommodating, chosen, needed. And when the structure goes away, what remains can feel both empty and strangely clarifying. You are left asking a more private question: if no one is here to receive my care, do I still know how to give it to myself?

In that season, Sutanya started Dinner for One as a small project. One season. Eight episodes. A way to tell the other side of the American-in-Paris story, the one that is not all perfect coats and perfect lovers. The one where you are still paying bills, still figuring things out, still standing in your kitchen wondering what dinner means when no one is watching.

When I asked her why she chose podcasting, her answer surprised me for how sensory it was.

“We think about food and the senses we use, our eyes, our nose, our taste,” she said. “But we never think about our ears.”

She talked about the sound of a pan when something first hits it versus when it’s nearly finished. The rhythm of chopping. The intimacy of sizzling. She wanted to make the kitchen audible.

I loved that because it names something many of us feel but do not articulate. There is a kind of companionship in sound. A voice in your ear while you cook. A presence that makes your apartment feel less empty.

That was part of her intention too. If you are cooking dinner for one, you might also be alone. So why not offer a little company that does not demand anything from you?

At some point in our conversation, we started talking about success and scale, and it became clear that what she has built is not only a brand. It’s a set of values.

She told me she has boundaries around what she will do to grow. She could make more short-form videos. She could chase more followers. But she is not interested in building something that requires her to become a constant content machine.

“What’s important to me is connecting with people,” she said. “Making people feel like someone out there cares about them, even in a weird parasocial way.”

Then she said something I have not stopped thinking about:

“Privacy is the most luxurious thing you can have. Being financially secure, and no one knows who the fuck you are. Talk about heaven.”

It made me laugh because it was blunt and true, but it also felt like a thesis statement for a certain kind of woman right now. Not the woman performing her life. The woman protecting it.

We also talked about how her platform grew. It did not explode overnight. It grew slowly, organically, over years. She told me she would not change the way it unfolded, because it gave her time to become who she needed to be for it. The audience found her not because she begged for attention, but because she offered something specific: care, consistency, and an honest narrative.

The word that kept returning in our conversation was community.

Not community as an aesthetic, but as a practical need. She talked about wanting normal women to feel seen. Not just influencers. Not just journalists. Real people. People who want a beautiful dinner and a little tenderness and the sense that someone planned something with them in mind.

It reminded me that the internet has become a strange kind of third place. Some of us do not have church. Or a neighborhood café where everyone knows our name. Or a consistent group of friends who live nearby.

Sometimes the third place is a newsletter you open at night. Or a podcast you listen to while you cook. Or a supper club in a city that is not yours yet.

Before we hung up, she gave me advice that was simple. “If you feel strongly about it, just fucking do it,” she said. “Because if you don’t do it, you’re just going to keep talking about it.”

I laughed, but I also felt the truth land. There are seasons when you can think yourself into paralysis. There are seasons when you need to move, even imperfectly, toward what you believe in.

As someone who has pivoted many times, I know that every pivot feels like the first one. Equally vulnerable. Equally raw. Equally uncertain. Change may be constant, but that does not make it comfortable.

What Sutanya’s work reminds me is that cooking for yourself is not a consolation prize.

It’s a form of affection.

It’s choosing to set a table, even if it’s for one. It’s buying the fresh herbs. It’s deciding that your life is still worthy of warmth.

And maybe that is the quiet work many of us are doing in our own way.

Not reinventing roasted chicken.

Reinventing the way we treat ourselves when no one is watching.

If you want to spend time in Sutanya’s world, her podcast is Dinner for One, and it’s exactly what it sounds like: a little company, a little Paris, and a lot of care.

If this piece felt familiar, you might feel at home here.

Cultured Butter is where I write about food, care, and the quieter ways women learn to live. You’re welcome to subscribe.

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Two days after surgery, I went on my usual walk.

It’s two and a half miles. Uphill, downhill, the loop my body knows so well it could do it half asleep. I was still on prescription pain medication, which meant I was moving through the world with a thin layer of borrowed confidence.

Ten minutes in, my body made itself known.

Not dramatically. Not as a crisis. Just a quiet, unmistakable message: this is too much.

I stopped on the path and felt the question I’ve asked myself in a hundred different forms.

Do I turn back, or do I keep going?

I kept going.

That’s the part I wish I could dress up as determination. Mental toughness. Grit. But the truth is simpler and less flattering.

I didn’t want to look like someone who couldn’t handle her own life.

My right arm was immobilized in a brace that doesn’t read as serious from far away. No hard cast. No obvious sign that tells strangers to soften. So as I walked, my whole arm was lifted awkwardly, as if I were stuck mid-wave.

I could feel myself becoming self-conscious in the way women do. Not about pain, but about presentation.

I had this strange fear that if I didn’t look injured enough, no one would believe I was. And if no one believed I was, then what did that make me for needing to slow down anyway?

At home, hunger didn’t arrive the way it normally does.

I made tea and forgot to drink it until it was lukewarm. I stood in front of the refrigerator staring as if it belonged to someone else. I tried to butter toast one-handed and watched it tear and crumble.

Such a small humiliation, the kind you would never tell anyone about because it sounds ridiculous until you’re living it.

I didn’t want a meal.

I wanted to feel like myself again.

Eventually I found myself eating the simplest things. Toast with too much butter because it was easier than spreading it evenly with one hand. Yogurt straight from the container. Warm tea that I kept forgetting about until it cooled. Nothing elaborate. Just small reminders that my body was still here, asking for care in quieter ways.

There are moments in recovery when your body simply shuts down. You can almost feel the system powering off. The signal is clear. Sit down. Stop moving. Do less.

I’m not cooking in those moments, and I miss it more than I expected.

Not only because I love cooking, but because cooking has always been one of my quiet proofs of competence. Dinner on the table. A stocked fridge. Something warm offered to someone else.

A life kept moving.

Stillness, on the other hand, has always felt like an open room with the lights too bright. Even when I’m sitting, I want to be doing something. Watching something. Responding to someone. Planning the next thing.

True rest can feel like missing out.

Or worse, falling behind.

Before surgery, I was afraid of the procedure. After surgery, I became afraid of the timeline. Even though I was told recovery would take time, some part of me believed I could bargain my way out of it.

I fantasized about the rituals of acceleration. Red light therapy. Sauna. Aloe. Anything that might help me move things along.

But bodies don’t respond to bargaining.

They respond to care.
To patience.
To something I’m not naturally very good at.

Letting the pace be slower without turning it into a personal failure.

I keep thinking about an essay I wrote about women overfunctioning. Why women like us keep going long after the body has asked us not to.

Overfunctioning isn’t only the extra work.

It’s the belief underneath it.

If I don’t keep going, something will go wrong.
If I stop, I’ll lose my place.
If I need help, I’ll become a burden.

Recovery has a way of forcing those beliefs out into the open. It turns down the volume of the outside world until you can hear what you’ve been telling yourself all along.

When the body insists on stillness, it doesn’t only ask for physical rest.

It asks for emotional honesty.

You can’t outrun what you feel if you can’t move the way you used to.

One night this week, I woke up furious.

Not irritated. Furious. The kind of anger that doesn’t belong to one moment but to a pattern. I lay there in the dark with my heart racing, my jaw clenched, my whole body buzzing like it had swallowed electricity.

I couldn’t talk my way out of it. I couldn’t reason with it.

So I got out of bed and did a few slow squats. Carefully. Quietly. Just enough movement to let the anger pass through instead of settling in.

Afterward I stood there breathing hard and said out loud, like a concession:

Today was enough. Tomorrow can hold the rest.

Asking for help is the part that still catches in my throat.

Not professionally. In my work life I can delegate, collaborate, build a plan. But personal help is different.

Personal help requires letting someone see you unfinished.

What I need right now is simple, almost embarrassingly so. A plastic cover over my arm so I can shower. Someone to pull my hair into a ponytail. Help fastening a button.

The tasks themselves are small.

The feeling underneath them is not.

When you are used to being the caretaker, it’s disorienting to be the one with needs.

And sometimes you don’t even know what those needs are until you are forced to ask.

I’ve spent a lot of my life anticipating other people’s needs. Reading emotions. Smoothing edges. Being proactive. Being dependable.

It’s a familiar identity.

A comfortable one.

It also has a shadow side.

When you are the one who handles everything, you can forget how to say, plainly: here is what I need.

There is something else I’m learning too.

When you allow people to help you, you give them something in return. A role. A way to show care that isn’t theoretical.

Bringing groceries. Sitting on the couch. Doing the small tasks that feel invisible until you can’t do them.

Everything takes longer right now.

Getting dressed. Brushing my teeth. Washing my hair. Eating a meal.

And I keep catching myself trying to solve it, as if there is a faster way to be a person.

Why am I in such a hurry?

Where exactly am I trying to get?

Some days I meet the slowness with gratitude. Thank you for this soft shirt. Thank you for a warm house. Thank you for time that doesn’t have to be justified.

Other days I resent how slow everything is.

Both feel true.

Recovery isn’t a straight line.

Neither is learning to receive.

I don’t know if I will ever be someone who welcomes the emergency brake. But I’m trying to let it teach me something while it’s here.

That rest is not a reward.
That needing help is not a flaw.
That a slower pace is not the same thing as falling behind.

So I’ll end with the questions recovery keeps placing in front of me.

What is it that you need right now?

What would it look like to slow down without turning it into a failure?

And what, exactly, is keeping you from it?

If this kind of reflection feels familiar, you might feel at home here.

Cultured Butter is where I write about food, care, and the quieter ways women learn to live. If you’d like, you can subscribe to receive future essays.

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When I first launched Cultured Butter, a former co-worker asked me for a coq au vin recipe.

I smiled because I don’t often cook chicken with red wine. If I am buying wine, it is usually to drink, to gift, or to make sangria.

But when I made this again after a very long time, I did not try to modernize it. I did not take it apart or lighten it. I cooked it the way I cook most things now. Slowly. With intention. With what I had. With a little improvising halfway through.

I even forgot the mushrooms until everything else was already in the pot. I could almost hear Julia Child reminding me that “cooking is one small failure after another, and that is how you learn.”

It turned out deeply comforting. The kind of dinner you spoon over warm mashed potatoes and eat on a cold night.

Serves 6 to 8

Ingredients

• 8 to 9 bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs, salted and rested 24 hours in the refrigerator

• 4 slices bacon, cut into 1-inch pieces

• 1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil

• 3 to 4 carrots, sliced

• 1 yellow onion, sliced ½ inch thick

• 3 to 4 cloves garlic, minced

• 1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar

• 4 to 5 sprigs fresh thyme

• 2 bay leaves

• 2 teaspoons kosher salt

• 1 teaspoon ground black pepper

• 1 teaspoon garlic powder

• 16 ounces shiitake mushrooms, sliced

• 2 cups unsalted chicken broth, plus more as needed

• ½ bottle Pinot Noir

• ½ bunch fresh parsley, leaves and tender stems, chopped

Mashed Potatoes

• 6 large russet potatoes, peeled and quartered

• 1 to 1½ tablespoons kosher salt for the boiling water

• 4 tablespoons salted butter

• ⅓ cup heavy cream

• ¼ to ½ cup whole milk, warmed

• 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

Why This Works

Bacon builds depth without flour or thickening.

Overnight salting seasons the chicken all the way through and improves browning.

A covered oven braise keeps the meat tender while the wine softens into something round and savory.

Method

Render the bacon

Heat a Dutch oven over medium heat. Add the bacon and a small drizzle of olive oil if needed. Cook until the fat renders and the bacon is lightly crisp. Remove with a slotted spoon and set aside, leaving the fat in the pot.

Brown the chicken

Place the chicken thighs skin side down into the hot bacon fat. Brown deeply before flipping. Brown the second side, then remove. The chicken will finish cooking in the oven.

Work in batches if needed. Do not crowd the pot.

Build the base

In the same pot, sauté the carrots and onion until softened, about 5 to 7 minutes. Add the garlic and cook for 30 seconds more.

Stir in the thyme, salt, black pepper, and garlic powder.

Add the shiitake mushrooms and cook briefly, just until they begin to soften.

Deglaze and simmer

Pour in 2 cups of unsalted chicken broth, scraping the bottom of the pot to release any browned bits. Add in bay leaves. Return the bacon to the pot.

Nestle the chicken back in. Pour in the Pinot Noir. Add more broth if needed so the liquid rises most of the way up the chicken but does not fully submerge it.

Bring to a gentle simmer on the stovetop before transferring to the oven. This ensures the braise cooks evenly.

Oven braise

Cover with a lid and transfer to a 350°F oven. Braise for about 40 minutes, until the chicken is tender and cooked through and registers 175 to 185°F at the bone.

Uncover for the last 10 minutes to reduce the sauce slightly. Remove from oven and add in balsamic vinegar.

Mashed Potatoes

While the chicken cooks, place the potatoes in a large pot and cover with cold water. Add 1 to 1½ tablespoons kosher salt. Bring to a boil and cook until fork tender.

Drain thoroughly and return to the hot pot to steam off excess moisture for 1 to 2 minutes.

Mash with the butter and heavy cream. Add warm milk a little at a time until smooth and soft but not loose. Season with black pepper and additional salt if needed.

They should be generous and spoonable.

To Serve

Spoon mashed potatoes onto a plate or shallow bowl.
Place a chicken thigh on top. Ladle over the wine broth with carrots, onions, mushrooms, and bacon.
Garnish with fresh chopped parsley.

Notes

The liquid should sit just below fully covering the chicken. Too much and the flavor thins. Too little and it reduces too quickly.

The sauce will be brothy rather than thick. That is intentional. It settles into the potatoes.

Leftovers are even better the next day.

If you asked me what my last meal would be, I wouldn’t be able to choose just one. It would be many things at once, a smorgasbord.

When I was little and we lived in China, we went to small local noodle shops where dumplings, wontons, and noodles were made by hand. Steam billowed in the air from boiling pots of water and broth. You could hear chives hitting the cutting board, smell vinegars and sauces opening up as they warmed. You ordered before you sat and were handed a small slip of paper with a number on it. You waited on a low stool at a narrow table, chopsticks resting beside white pepper, red vinegar, and black vinegar, until your bowl arrived.

That memory comes back to me most in winter.

This one in New England has been especially unforgiving. I didn’t feel like leaving the house to buy wonton skins, so I made them instead.

What followed is technically a lasagna. But it behaves more like a wonton. One night, I made a simple chicken broth, salted it carefully, and placed a warm slice into the bowl. The dough softened, the filling loosened, and suddenly it felt both new and completely familiar. A deconstructed wonton soup.

Wonton Lasagna Dough

Thin, supple sheets for layering, lighter than pasta, sturdier than store-bought wrappers

This is a hot-water dough adapted from traditional Chinese wonton technique and scaled for a full 9×13-inch lasagna. The boiling water partially gelatinizes the starch, giving you sheets that roll whisper-thin, stay tender, and absorb moisture without turning gummy.

Yield
Enough dough for 4-5 generous lasagna layers, with extra for trimming.

Ingredients

• 600 g all-purpose flour (about 5 cups)

• 4 g kosher salt (about 1¼ tsp)

• 420 g boiling water (about 1¾ cups)

• 10 g neutral oil (about 2 tsp), optional but recommended

Why this works:
Slightly higher hydration than pasta dough keeps the sheets supple. A touch of oil prevents brittleness at the edges and tearing during rolling.

Method

Mix the dough
In a heatproof bowl, whisk together the flour and salt. Pour in the boiling water and stir immediately with chopsticks or a fork until shaggy clumps form. Add the oil, if using.

Knead briefly
Once cool enough to handle, knead for just 3–4 minutes, until smooth and cohesive. Stop early, over kneading will make the dough elastic and difficult to roll thin.

Rest (non-negotiable)
Wrap tightly and rest at room temperature for 45 minutes. The dough should feel relaxed and cool, not springy.

Roll thin
Divide into 4-5 portions. Roll each piece very thin.

Cut and use
Cut into large rectangles (about 4–5 inches / 10–13 cm). Use raw in the lasagna, no par-cooking needed. The sheets will cook fully from the moisture in the oven.

Notes for Assembly

• Sauce or added liquid should be slightly looser than usual; the dough absorbs moisture.

• Leave some edges exposed on the top layer for crisp, ruffled corners.

• Brush the top sheets lightly with butter or olive oil before baking.

Variations

• Extra tender: Replace 50 g of the water with whole milk

• More structure: Swap 75 g of the flour for fine semolina

Savory Pork & Beef Filling for Wonton Lasagna

Juicy, aromatic, and structured to slice cleanly

This filling borrows from classic wonton technique but is calibrated for baking in layers. Cornstarch and a short rest help the meat bind and stay succulent, while cabbage and onion release just enough moisture to steam the dough without flooding it. You could easily swap out the meat with your favorite plant based protein like crumbled tofu.

Yield
Enough filling for one 9×13-inch wonton lasagna (5–6 layers).

Ingredients

Filling

• 450 g (1 lb) ground pork

• 450 g (1 lb) ground beef

• 140 g (about 2 cups) thinly sliced Brussels sprouts, green cabbage, or napa cabbage

• 12 g (2 1/2 tsp) kosher salt

• 30 g (2 Tbsp) soy sauce

• 10 g (2 tsp) toasted sesame oil

• 6 g (2 tsp) garlic powder

• 3 large garlic cloves, finely grated

• 1 large thumb ginger (about 20 g), finely grated

• 150 g (1½ cups) diced white onion

• 8 g (1 Tbsp) cornstarch

• 80 g (⅓ cup) water

To Finish

• 3 scallions, thinly sliced

• 1 large bunch cilantro, chopped

• 2 Tbsp toasted sesame oil

• Chili paste or chili crisp (optional)

• Ground white pepper (optional

• Red vinegar or black vinegar (optional)

Method

Mix the filling
In a large bowl, combine all filling ingredients. Using your hands, mix gently but thoroughly until cohesive and slightly sticky, about 1 minute.

Rest
Cover and refrigerate for 15–20 minutes. This allows the salt to season the meat evenly and the cornstarch to hydrate.

Heat the oven
Preheat to 375°F (190°C).

Assemble
Line the pan with a sheet of dough. Spread a thin, even layer of filling over it (about ¾ cup). Repeat, finishing with a final sheet of dough on top.

Add moisture
Slowly pour 2½–3 cups water evenly around the edges of the pan. The liquid should pool slightly but not submerge the layers.

Bake
Cover tightly with foil and bake for 35 minutes, until bubbling and cooked through.

Finish uncovered
Remove foil and bake an additional 10–15 minutes, until the top is set and lightly blistered.

Top and rest
Brush with sesame oil, then scatter scallions and cilantro over the top. Add chili paste or red or black vinegar to taste. Rest 10–15 minutes before slicing.

Notes for Success

• The filling should feel juicy but not wet when mixed.

• Water amount depends on pan depth, err slightly lower; you can always add a splash mid-bake.

• Resting after baking is essential for clean slices.

Serving

Serve hot, with extra chili paste, ground white pepper, and red or black vinegar at the table.

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I don’t know about you, but I’m missing the warmth of the sun and vitamin D.

I’ve been putting off a much-needed surgery for a long time, and now that it’s finally scheduled, it’s like my body is starting to slow down early, asking for softness before it has to. While I can still use my right hand and arm, I’m baking for familiarity, comfort, and (always) spreading the carb love.

A lot of “high-protein bagel” recipes miss the part that matters most: how the crumb actually feels. They bake up like a rock and are a little sad.

This version is the one I keep coming back to. I use an egg and a mix of baking powder and baking soda for a fluffy version. It is quick, yeast-free, and surprisingly tall. The cottage cheese keeps them moist and protein-rich, the cornstarch makes the crumb lighter, and the baking powder plus baking soda combo gives real lift in the oven. No squat little rings.

One more honest note about texture: when they’re fresh, they eat more like a biscuit than a classic bagel. After they cool, and especially after a night in the fridge and a warm-up, they settle into something more bread-like. Both versions are good, just different moods.

Soft like a breakfast roll, baked more like a biscuit shape out of the oven, fluffy all the way through. I made breakfast egg sandwiches with these.

The small technique that changes everything

This dough doesn’t want kneading. Think: mix until cohesive, then stop.

And don’t skip the 15-minute rest. It is just enough time for the flour to hydrate and the dough to relax, so you can shape without pressing all the air out.

Ingredients (makes 6 to 8)

• 16 oz / 454 g cottage cheese, blended completely smooth

• 1 large egg

• 1 Tbsp olive oil or melted butter

  • Olive oil = softer, more bread-like

  • Butter = richer, more bagel-adjacent

Dry

• 1¾ cups / 210 g all-purpose flour

• ¼ cup / 30 g cornstarch

• 1 Tbsp baking powder

• ½ tsp baking soda

• 1 tsp kosher salt

Optional finishes

• Egg wash or milk, for brushing

• Everything seasoning, dried onion, sesame, poppy, flaky salt

Method

1) Heat the oven

Set to 425°F / 220°C. Line a sheet pan with parchment.

2) Mix the dry

Whisk flour, cornstarch, baking powder, baking soda, and salt until evenly combined.

3) Mix the wet

Whisk blended cottage cheese, egg, and oil or butter until smooth.

4) Combine, gently

Add wet to dry and stir just until a soft, slightly sticky dough forms.
No kneading. Stop when it’s shaggy but cohesive.

5) Rest (don’t skip)

Cover and rest 15 minutes at room temp. The dough will feel less tacky and easier to shape.

6) Shape without squishing

If your dough is wet, it’s ok. Lightly cover your hands with flour or mix in 1 tablespoon of all purpose flour at a time. I prefer to flour my hands. Divide into 6 to 8 pieces. Roll lightly into balls, poke a hole through the center, then stretch just enough to form a bagel.
Gentle hands = taller bagels.

7) Brush and top

Brush with egg wash or milk. Add toppings.

8) Bake

Bake 18 to 22 minutes, until puffed and deeply golden.
Cool 10 minutes before slicing (the crumb sets as steam escapes).

Why they’re fluffy

• Cornstarch lightens the structure without flattening it

• Egg plus fat keep the crumb tender and help hold air

• Baking powder gives steady lift in a wet, protein-heavy dough

• Baking soda reacts with dairy acidity for extra oven spring

Texture tuning

• Taller: make 6 bagels (instead of 8)

• Softer: brush with butter right out of the oven
  Slight chew: swap 2 Tbsp cornstarch for 2 Tbsp flour

Make-ahead options

• Best fluff: rest 15 minutes, bake same day

• Overnight dough: mix everything except baking powder and baking soda, then refrigerate. Next day, gently work in leavening, rest 10 minutes, bake.

• Overnight shaped: shape, chill uncovered overnight, bake from the fridge (slightly less rise, still very good)
  

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I was watching Joy Ride recently on Netflix, and there was a moment early on that stayed with me. Two parents are speaking Chinese to each other at a playground when another couple approaches to say hello. The mother quickly clarifies: we speak English. Not that they just arrived. Not that they’re new here. And then, almost as an aside, she adds that they moved from California.

It’s a small moment, easy to miss. But I felt it immediately. That familiar relief of being understood without having to explain yourself. The quiet mental equation of how much context to offer, and to whom. The instinct to preempt assumptions before they settle.

On Being Understood

Growing up, I learned early that achievement could do a lot of work for you. It builds credibility. It earns respect. It gives you confidence. It can also become a way of proving that you belong, to others and sometimes to yourself. I’m not saying this is bad. I just know how easily accomplishment can turn into a substitute for ease.

Every time I started a new job, especially when I transitioned into a new industry or tried to build a new skill set, it felt like starting over. Proving myself again. There’s a particular exhaustion that comes with that cycle, the sense that no matter how much you’ve already done, you are always at the beginning. Only when you stay in the same lane do you get to stop narrating your competence. Familiarity does the talking for you.

Curiosity has always been my way forward. Growth, for me, has meant trial and error and the willingness to begin again without needing to justify the pivot. But curiosity also comes with exposure. Each reinvention invites new assumptions, new expectations, new moments where you are not immediately legible.

Belonging, I’ve learned, is not the same as safety. You can move through a place without open hostility and still feel the quiet work of difference happening all around you.

The Work of Standing Out

I was lucky in many ways. I did not experience much overt racism growing up. I remember waiting for the school bus once when an older, lanky neighborhood boy made a racist comment toward me. Before I could even respond, the other kids shut him down. That was the end of it. I walked away largely unscathed, with just that one clear memory.

What lingered more was the feeling of standing out. I grew up in a small town in Montana. Besides one other family across town, no one looked like us. I stuck out like a sore thumb. I wanted blue eyes and blond hair because fitting in felt easier than being noticed. Being different wasn’t framed as a strength at the time. It was simply something to manage.

At the same time, I was doing the opposite. My mother and I traveled to China every few years, and I had access to clothes and shoes no one else around me had seen yet. Fashion became a kind of language for me. For someone who wanted to blend in, I found myself standing out anyway. My clothes invited comments, and I liked the attention, even as I wanted to disappear into the crowd. I wanted to be different and invisible at the same time. An oxymoron, but a familiar one.

One of my favorite books is The Bluest Eye. Reading it was the first time I felt understood in that particular way. The longing to blend in. The quiet wish to be unremarkable. As a child, that recognition mattered more than confidence ever could. It wasn’t about empowerment. It was about being seen.

Belonging Without Explanation

So where does identity come from? Family. Appearance. Education. Achievement. I identify as a Chinese American woman, but I move easily between cultures. That flexibility is often mistaken for fluency. When I’m around native Chinese speakers, people expect me to speak Chinese without an accent, simply because of how I look.

But appearance does not guarantee belonging. Looking a certain way does not mean behaving the way others expect. Over time, I’ve become aware of how much energy goes into managing those expectations, deciding when to clarify and when to let assumptions sit. When to explain. When to stay quiet. When to let people be wrong.

What I’m interested in now is not proving where I fit, but noticing when I no longer feel the need to. There’s a difference between being understood and being at ease. Between being legible and being free.

Identity isn’t something I owe anyone an explanation for.

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I’m a little obsessed with black sesame. It feels like tahini’s more soulful cousin: deeper, toastier, less eager to please. I love the way it tastes and the way it looks, inky and grounding, quietly striking. Black is always in style, like a little black dress.

The first time I made these cookies, they weren’t sweet enough. This is the version I make now, properly sweet and deeply nutty, with crisp edges and a chewy center. The kind of cookie that doesn’t ask for adjustment. They also make an excellent ice cream sandwich, with vanilla gelato nestled between two cookies.

Black Sesame Brown-Butter “Halva” Cookie Recipe

Nutty, toasty, and sweet, with crisp edges and a chewy center.

Yield: about 18 large cookies
Oven: 350°F (175°C)
Chill: 2–24 hours (overnight preferred)

Ingredients

Brown-Butter Base

• 170 g (¾ cup / 1½ sticks) unsalted butter

• 15 g (2 Tbsp) dry milk powder

Sugars + Sesame

• 180 g (about ¾ cup + 2 Tbsp) dark brown sugar, packed

• 90 g (about ½ cup minus 1 tsp) granulated sugar

• 60 g (¼ cup) tahini, well stirred

• 40 g (2 Tbsp + 2 tsp) black sesame paste

Eggs + Flavor

• 1 large egg (50 g)

• 1 egg yolk (18 g)

• 8 g (2 tsp) vanilla extract

• ¼ tsp espresso powder (optional)

Dry Ingredients

• 210 g (1¾ cups) all-purpose flour

• 4 g (1 tsp) baking soda

• 2 g (½ tsp) baking powder

• 3 g (½ tsp) fine sea salt

Mix-Ins

• 25 g (3 Tbsp) black sesame seeds, toasted and cooled

• 170 g (about 1 cup) semi-sweet chocolate, chopped or fèves

  • Or use 85 g semi-sweet + 85 g dark for a slightly less sweet edge

Finish (Optional)

• 2–3 Tbsp extra toasted black sesame seeds

• Pinch of sugar, mixed into the sesame

Method

Brown the butter:
Melt the butter in a light-colored saucepan over medium heat. When foamy, whisk in the milk powder. Continue cooking until the butter is deeply golden and smells nutty. Scrape everything, especially the browned bits into a bowl. Let cool for about 15 minutes.

Build the base:
Whisk the brown butter with the brown sugar and granulated sugar until glossy. Whisk in the tahini and black sesame paste until smooth.

Add eggs and flavor:
Whisk in the egg, egg yolk, vanilla, and espresso powder (if using) until the mixture looks thick and cohesive.

Fold in dry ingredients:
In a separate bowl, mix the flour, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. Fold into the wet ingredients just until no dry streaks remain.

Add sesame and chocolate:
Fold in the toasted black sesame seeds and chocolate.

Chill:
Cover and refrigerate for at least 2 hours, ideally overnight. This step matters, the dough needs time to hydrate and set.

Portion:
Scoop dough into roughly 60 g balls. For a stronger visual and flavor cue, roll the tops in toasted black sesame seeds.

Bake:
Bake for 10–12 minutes, until the edges are set but the centers still look slightly underdone.

Cool:
Let the cookies rest on the baking sheet for 10 minutes, then transfer to a rack to cool completely.

Notes

• If your tahini or black sesame paste is very thick, stir aggressively before measuring so the oil is evenly distributed.

• For prettier tops, press a few shards of chocolate into each dough ball just before baking.

Tonight I’m making a permission dinner: rice + eggs + something green, because I don’t have the energy for anything that asks me to negotiate with myself.

Permission dinner: one pan, something savory, and the relief of calling it enough.

Here’s the only move, and it’s barely a recipe.

In a small pan, warm a spoonful of butter until it smells nutty (not browned, just awake). If you’re using olive oil, heat it until it shimmers. Add a splash of soy sauce and a few drops of something sharp (lemon, vinegar, or hot sauce, whatever you’ve got). Sprinkle in a little garlic powder. It turns into a glossy, salty and punchy sauce that makes plain food feel cared for.

Pile it on rice. Add a fried egg. Add frozen peas or wilted greens if you have them. Sit down if you can. But it’s December 23rd. This might be a kitchen counter dinner, or a couch dinner (my favorite), with a romcom on in the background that makes it feel even cozier.

A permission dinner is dinner that says: this counts. That’s enough.

If you’re having one too, hit reply and tell me what “permission” looks like at your table. If you know someone who needs a softer dinner tonight, feel free to forward this.

P.S. Shortcut formula: butter or olive oil + soy + acid + garlic powder. That’s the whole thing.

There’s so much focus on protein, especially this time of year, that I find myself craving something a little lighter. A meal that feels nourishing but not fussy. Vegetables, carbs, something savory and crisp. A girl meal, but more grown up.

I made this with leftover spaghetti squash, knowing squash alone wouldn’t quite do it for me. I am, after all, a carb connoisseur. The sweetness of the squash plays beautifully with noodles and a garlicky, umami-forward sauce. It comes together quickly and is fun to eat. Ribbons of squash and pasta, just coated enough, a little spicy if you want it.

Serves 1 (comfortably)

Ingredients

• 1½ cups roasted spaghetti squash

• ¾ cup cooked noodles (spaghetti, linguine, rice noodles, or soba work well)

• 1 tsp fresh minced garlic

• ⅛ cup diced onion

• 1 tsp garlic powder

• ½ tsp salt

• ⅛ tsp black pepper

• 1 tsp soy sauce

• 1 scallion, thinly sliced

• 1 tsp sesame oil

• 1½ tbsp balsamic vinegar

• 1 tbsp chili paste or sriracha (optional, to taste)

To roast the squash

Heat the oven to 375°F.
Cut the spaghetti squash in half lengthwise.

Lightly mist or brush with olive oil and sprinkle with salt. Cover loosely with aluminum foil and roast for 40 to 45 minutes, until a fork slides through easily.
Let cool slightly, then scrape into strands with a fork.

To assemble

Cook the noodles according to package instructions and drain well.

In a pan over medium heat, add a small amount of olive oil along with the minced garlic and diced onion. Cook gently for 30 to 60 seconds, just until fragrant.

Add the garlic and onion mixture over the spaghetti squash and cooked noodles on a large plate.
Season with salt, pepper, garlic powder, soy sauce, sesame oil, and balsamic vinegar.
Toss to combine.

Add chili paste if using and toss again until everything is glossy and warmed through.
Finish with sliced scallions. Taste and adjust seasoning.

If you make this, I’d love to know when you eat it.

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I was sitting with a group of girlfriends I’ve been seeing almost every weekend when the conversation drifted toward our mothers. We each had a story, a pattern, a wound, a concern, a question. And the one we all eventually asked was the same.

What is it about our relationships with our moms?

The holidays tend to magnify that question. December carries an unspoken expectation that family gatherings should feel warm and magical, yet for so many people the season brings confusion, distance, or a quiet ache. Sometimes family feels like strangers, not because anyone is at fault, but because closeness takes time, shared experiences, and reciprocal effort. Genetics alone does not create connection.

It’s no surprise that conversations about family distance have become more open. Oprah recently mentioned that nearly a third of Americans experience some form of estrangement. For many, it is an act of self-preservation rather than rebellion.

All relationships, friendships, partnerships, and community rely on trust, respect, consistency, intention, and proximity. Yet when it comes to family, we are taught that those rules do not apply. We’re supposed to feel close simply because we “should.” And when we don’t, the gap between expectation and reality can feel painful.

I think about this often while navigating my own season of caring for my mother, because my relationship with her was shaped long before I understood what closeness even meant. Like many children of immigrants, I grew up translating bills, making phone calls, and memorizing personal information so I could pretend to be an adult on the other end of the line. By nine years old, I was a second parent in my own home.

When friends tell me stories about their childhood biking around their neighborhoods until sunset or going off to summer camp, I listen with a mix of nostalgia and wonder. Little Sue would have loved those experiences. And an Easy-Bake Oven.

Instead, I was a latchkey kid who learned independence out of necessity and survival, not readiness.

That pattern still lives in me. I’m the one who gets the call when something goes wrong. I rearrange my schedule. I step in before the consequences land. My friends and I sometimes laugh about this dynamic, but underneath the humor is a familiar ache, the way caretaking becomes instinct long before we consciously choose it.

The love between a mother and daughter is complicated.

Sometimes all it takes is one word or one look from my mother and I immediately know what she is feeling, expecting, or hoping I will fix. And in this season of her life, I’m learning a different approach. I try not to push her. I let her stay in her comfort zone, even if that means she prefers not to be around non-native Chinese speakers during the holidays. It’s not perfect, but it is gentler for both of us.

The holidays stir all of this up. The joy is real, and so is the exhaustion. And in this season, the smallest rituals help me stay steady. One of mine is a green smoothie I make almost every morning. No cooking. No decisions. Just something bright, nourishing, nutrient dense, and simple on days when everything else feels complicated.

Chewing through a giant salad can feel impossible on busy days. Drinking something green feels doable.

If this story touched something in you, I’d love to hear your experience too. Hit reply or share with someone navigating complicated family ties this month.

Cultured Greens: My Everyday Morning Ritual

Makes 1 smoothie (8–10 oz)

Base
• ½ frozen banana
• ½ apple (use 1 whole apple if you prefer sweeter)
• 4–6 raw almonds
• 2–3 raw cashews (optional)
• ½ thumb fresh ginger (optional)
• ¼ cup pineapple (optional)
• ½ cup packed spinach
• ¼ cup packed kale
• ⅛ teaspoon vanilla
• ½ teaspoon spirulina
• 1 teaspoon honey
• Pinch of salt

Boosts (optional)
• 2 tablespoons raw oatmeal
• 1 teaspoon ground flax
• 1 teaspoon chia seeds

Liquid
• 1–1½ cups water or mylk of choice
• 3–5 ice cubes

Blend until smooth. Drink slowly. Let it feel like a reset.

If I see something that needs to be done, I do it. If I sense something is about to fall apart, I get ahead of it. For most of my life, this has been my identity. I am the person who anticipates, executes, organizes, and steps into the hard conversations. A former coworker once messaged me during a meeting just to say, “Hold off.” She already knew I would be halfway through the task before anyone assigned it.

From the outside, this looks admirable.
Being the woman who gets things done.
The reliable one.
The steady one.
The fixer.
The closer.

But when that becomes your operating system, you move through the world constantly scanning for needs, filling gaps, smoothing emotions, and carrying responsibilities that were never yours. It feels easier to hold everything than let anything drop.

There is no off switch.
See it. Do it. Fix it.

And over time, that pace takes something from you.

I come from a lineage of women who lived this way. My mother worked full time, sewed clothes at night to earn extra income, cooked every meal, cleaned the house, and held the emotional weight of our family. I watched her carry far more than any single person should. Without realizing it, I absorbed the idea that this is what being a woman in the world required. That this was strength. That this is how you build a life.

So I became the woman who fills every gap.
The woman who holds everyone together.
The woman who rarely asks for help because she doesn’t want to add to anyone else’s load.

When that becomes your default, it is difficult to imagine another way. There is no off switch. There is not even a dimmer switch.

Eventually, I started asking myself the questions I had avoided for years.

How do I unlearn this pace?
Is there a way to live that doesn’t require being “on” at all times?
Can capability exist without exhaustion?

Some seasons of life truly demand more from us. Sometimes you are the only one who can hold things together. But when every season becomes survival mode, something deeper is happening.

I began reading about overfunctioning because, of course, I did.
Clinical psychologist Dr. Merry C. Lin defines overfunctioning as “taking responsibility not just for your own life but for the lives of those around you.” It landed with a thud. I saw myself in every part of that definition.

Then I came across an article by Dr. Susan Biali, MD, describing people who overfunction as those who have been praised all their lives for being capable, dependable, and able to handle anything. These individuals are rewarded for their high capacity, but that same strength pushes them toward burnout if it becomes their only mode of operating.

According to Biali, overfunctioning can look like:

• Doing work you know should be delegated.
• Taking on tasks that belong to someone else.
• Setting goals for another person that they never asked for.
• Worrying about everyone else’s problems.
• Offering advice constantly.
• Feeling responsible for someone’s emotional state or happiness.

I recognized myself in almost every line.

Last week I chatted with a woman in her late thirties who developed shingles from stress. She ignored the symptoms because she was too busy taking care of everything else around her. By the time she sought medical help, she had missed the window for effective treatment.

My mother has also had shingles from stress. I know many women with similar stories. Stress settling in the body. Exhaustion dressed up as resilience. Strength worn like armor until it cracks.

So I keep returning to the same questions.

When did I learn that doing everything was the requirement for being enough?
And when did it start to feel impossible to live any other way?

For me, it traces back to my mother. That early blueprint shaped my idea of what it meant to build a life. Work hard. Never slow down. Hold everything. Don’t ask for help.

But I am unlearning that now.
Slowly. Imperfectly.
One calmer cooking session and one honest conversation at a time.

Thank you for reading. If this reflection met you where you are, I hope you stay awhile. Cultured Butter is becoming a home for honest conversations and slower ways of living, especially for women who carry more than anyone sees. If this essay resonated, feel free to subscribe or share it with someone who might need a moment of ease today.

With love,

Sue

For me, the turning point came when I lost my wallet twice in less than a month. If you know me, you know how strange that is. I am the organized one. I live inside spreadsheets. I love systems. I clean, sort, and structure everything with care. If someone in my life needs order or creative problem solving, they come to me.

So how did I become the woman canceling credit cards and filing for replacement IDs twice in four weeks?

The truth is that I have spent years operating at one speed. Go.

No pause. No margin. No space between breaths.

In the kitchen, that speed used to work for me until it didn’t. I have strong preferences and I love accuracy. Washed thoroughly. Cut evenly. Seasoned with intention. But that need for control created tension with the people I love. Those closest to me would joke that they felt like they were on a cooking competition show whenever they tried to help. It was not a joke. It hurt, and it slowly pushed me away from the one thing that has always grounded me: cooking.

Some people call this over functioning. Some call it survival mode. Others call it holding everything together while quietly falling apart. Whatever the name is, it took a toll on me and everyone around me.

Then came my second layoff in two years.

At the same time, I’m caring for my elderly mother, building a new circle of friends in a new city, navigating personal and professional transitions, and being the emotional support person for everyone in my orbit. I kept going even when I had nothing left.

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I did not feel human anymore.

Underneath all of that was a part of me that wanted rest and renewal. The creative, food loving part that wanted to come back to itself. The part that wanted to share again.

Food was the first language I ever learned. I grew up in the restaurant world as an immigrant kid. I learned to cook by watching endless hours of the Food Network, observing my mother, and absorbing everything happening around me in our family’s kitchen. My earliest memories of non-Asian food were burgers, pizza, and watching Garfield eat lasagna. I remember peeling onions in the back just to help. Restaurants are beautiful, but they ask for everything. No days off. No weekends. No holidays. You learn hard work and resilience because you must keep going.

After my first layoff many years ago, I poured that resilience into creating an indie CPG food brand that was carried at Whole Foods Market and speciality stores. That chapter is long behind me now, but it gave me a foundation I still carry and a belief that building something warm and meaningful is always possible.

Now I am in a new season of life, and something in me has shifted. I no longer want to power through everything. I want to feel. I want to slow down. I want to cook in a way that makes me human again rather than perfect.

This soup was the first thing that helped me find my way back.

The Soup I Make When I Feel Overwhelmed

Calming Cauliflower Soup: Warm, simple, grounding
Serves: 4 to 5
Total time: 50 to 60 minutes

Ingredients

Produce

• 1 head cauliflower

• 1 medium white onion

• Half a bulb of garlic, 4 to 6 cloves

Seasonings

• 1 tablespoon salt

• 1 1/2 teaspoons garlic powder

• 1 teaspoon black pepper

• 1/2 a teaspoon lemon juice

Broth Base

• 2 tablespoons Better Than Bouillon chicken base sub for veggie base if plant based.

• 1 tablespoon soy sauce, Bragg’s Liquid Aminos, or tamari (Coconut aminos not suggested, too sweet)

Liquid

• 6 to 8 cups water

Equipment

• Large stock pot or Dutch oven

• Baking sheet or air fryer

• Blender or immersion blender

Optional toppings

• Scallions

• Crispy Bacon

• Parmesan cheese

Optional sides

• Sourdough bread

• Crackers

Instructions

• Prep the vegetables.

• Chop the cauliflower and onion into small pieces. Lightly crush the garlic cloves.

Season

• Place the vegetables on a lightly oiled baking sheet. Sprinkle with a little salt and a thin coating of olive oil.

Roast

1. Roast at 375 degrees for 35 to 40 minutes until soft and golden.

2. If using an air fryer, cook in batches at 325 degrees on air roast for 8 to 10 minutes per batch.

Blend the base

• Add all roasted vegetables to a blender with 2 cups of water.

• Add the chicken base, soy sauce or tamari, garlic powder, salt, and black pepper.

• Blend until smooth.

Simmer

• Pour the blended mixture into your pot or dutch oven. Add the remaining water.

• You want roughly twice as much liquid as cauliflower.

• Bring to a boil, then reduce to a gentle simmer for 10 to 15 minutes.

Finish

• Taste and adjust seasonings. Add lemon juice just before serving.

• Top with scallions, bacon, or parmesan if you like. Enjoy with sourdough or crackers.

Welcome to Cultured Butter

This is a gentle space for women who do too much.
A place to slow down in the kitchen and in your life.
A place to reconnect with the part of yourself that has been holding everything together for far too long.
A place to reclaim the heart of your home with calm, comfort, and intention.

Thank you for being here. If this story or this simple soup brings you a sense of ease, feel free to subscribe or share it with someone who might need a calmer way to cook or live. I’m building something warm and nourishing here, and I am glad you found your way in. With love, Sue.

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