04/28/2026
This is me, years ago, learning to make medicine with my hands.
I was in my early years of clinical practice, working in hospice care, and I had just begun studying holistic nutrition alongside my bodywork. The friend I was making this batch of sauerkraut for was dying, and we knew the fermented cabbage might help. So one autumn afternoon, just before her favorite holiday of Halloween, we went to her house, sat at her kitchen counter, and I made my first jar of sauerkraut by hand while she sat bundled in blankets at her table, sipping tea, watching me work.
That afternoon was the medicine, as much as the sauerkraut was. All of us in the kitchen. My hands in the work. The autumn light. The quiet and the laughter between us. The unspoken truth that what was happening in that room was a complete act of feeding, even when food was not the point of it.
This is one of those times that taught me food is medicine even when healing does not include survival. That nourishment matters all the way through. That the kitchen can be a place of love at the end of a life as fully as at the beginning of one.
I have been creating the content for our Kitchen Remedies course these last weeks, and writing the personal notes for each lesson brought me back into memory in ways I did not expect. I have written more about all of this on the blog this week, including how I came to this work the long way around, through chronic fatigue and Ayurveda and a slow remembering. The link is in my bio.
If any of this is calling you, the smallest beginning is also the entire teaching. Touch your food. Let your heart prepare your meal. Slow down. Breathe.
The hearth that heals is in your heart and in your hands.