Gratitude changed how I cooked this year

For much of my life, the concept of gratitude has felt like a well-intentioned holiday guest who overstayed their welcome. A nice enough idea, sure, but one that began to feel suffocating in its endless repetitions and increasingly strange associations. These days, “practicing gratitude” seems to come bundled with jade rollers, superfoods and the kind of journals that include prompts like “What’s your vibration today?” The wellness industry got its hands on gratitude and, inevitably, made it sticky with self-help slogans.

To be fair, though, I was a little suspicious of the concept long before it got Goop-ified. Growing up in a deeply Evangelical church, gratitude was often framed less as a virtue and more as a preemptive apology to an easily angered God. Be thankful, I was told, for your blessings — because if you’re not, He’ll know. It’s hard to feel a warm glow of appreciation when it comes with a side of cosmic guilt and the threat of eternal damnation. 

But after my 30th birthday — and surviving a global pandemic in which the sheer magnitude of international loss seemed to magnify personal sorrows  — I found myself cautiously circling back to gratitude. It started with a desire to reconnect with God, though this time, I left organized religion out of it. Gratitude seemed like a low-stakes way to restart the conversation: a quiet thank-you here and there, no strings attached.

At first, I stuck to the big stuff: my family, my partner, my friends. Then, my thank-yous got smaller, almost embarrassingly so. The crunch of fall leaves on my daily walk. How the really good cinnamon I splurged on enhances my morning latte. The way my dachshund, unabashedly ridiculous, rolls belly-up on the scratchy hallway carpet each morning. I worried for a bit that I was becoming a slightly self-involved dork, the sort of person who might, in earnest, Instagram a gratitude list. But over time, I stopped caring. 

Gratitude’s real breakthrough came in the kitchen. As someone who writes about food and spends an unreasonable amount of my free time thinking about what to eat next, I began to see cooking through this recalibrated lens. Leftovers, once a source of mild dread, transformed into opportunities. A container of roasted vegetables wasn’t just Tuesday’s dinner; it was Wednesday’s frittata. Half a stale baguette wasn’t trash; it was bread pudding or croutons or something I could blitz into breadcrumbs. The kitchen became less of a battleground for my expectations and more of a playground for my experiments.

Even grocery shopping changed. Instead of rushing through the store, I started lingering—yes, lingering!—in the produce section, marveling at the deep purple of a perfectly ripe plum or the scent of fresh dill. I noticed the weight of a good lemon in my hand, the neat rows of spices on the shelves. What once felt like drudgery became a small but significant ritual of abundance.

The biggest shift, though, was in the act of cooking itself. For quite a while, it had felt like an obligation: something to fit between deadlines and dishes, a chore to be completed before collapsing on the couch, which I recognize is ironic for someone who works in food media. But with gratitude in the mix, cooking became something else entirely. I remembered how much I loved the small, sensory details: the hiss of olive oil in a pan, the way garlic perfumes the air, the tactile pleasure of kneading dough. Recipes became invitations rather than instructions, and mistakes — an over-salted soup, a lopsided pie crust — became part of the joy.

Not every meal was a triumph, of course. There were nights when I reverted to a bowl of cereal, eaten unceremoniously while standing over the sink. But even then, I’d find myself quietly thankful for the crispness of Cinnamon Toast Crunch or the convenience of boxed oat milk. Gratitude has a funny way of sneaking in, even when you’re not paying attention.

I won’t pretend this shift was profound. Gratitude didn’t fundamentally alter my cooking so much as it reframed it. What was once a daily grind became a daily grace, an act of care for myself and the people I feed. Food became more than just fuel; it became a reminder of the extraordinary within the ordinary.

Gratitude remains an awkward, earnest thing. It’s a little embarrassing, like a parent waving too enthusiastically at a school play. But in learning to embrace that embarrassment, I’ve found something that feels surprisingly close to joy. And for that, I am thankful.