Want to Change the World? Cook.

The radical, tender power of making someone dinner.

THERE ARE FEW THINGS in life as quietly profound as cooking for someone. It’s an act so ordinary, so woven into the daily rhythms of our lives, that we rarely stop to consider its weight, its sacredness. And yet, I believe—no, I know—that cooking for someone is one of the most important things you can do.

At its most basic, feeding someone is a primal gesture. It’s not performative, it’s not about flair or Instagram likes or a Michelin star. It is, in its essence, about life. About survival. And love. To cook for someone is to step into the most ancient of human roles: the nurturer, the life-giver, the one who keeps the flame and the body going.

We enter this world completely helpless. Utterly dependent. A squalling, hungry need. And what do we do the moment we’re born? We feed. We cry out to be fed. To be held and nourished. That first offering—a breast, a bottle, a spoonful of mashed banana—is our earliest glimpse of love. Of being cared for. Of being seen. From the very beginning, to be fed is to be loved.

When I cook for someone, I feel that I’m reaching back to something ancient, cellular. A ritual encoded in my bones. I am not simply pan-searing a chop or whisking lemon into a vinaigrette. I am saying: Here. Live. Take this. I made it for you. I am keeping you alive. And in that moment, my existence merges with yours. I am part of your aliveness.

What could be more sacred than that?