Thanksgiving

My new favourite holiday of the year—quite shocking for a Zimbabwean, I know, considering we don’t traditionally observe it. But the concept speaks to me deeply. It began as a day of giving thanks for the harvests of the preceding year, yet in life, the idea of pausing simply to be grateful feels profoundly necessary. A day to break bread with family and friends, to hold gratitude like a warm flame in our hands. In my little world, this day holds great importance.

For me, it’s a day to share my creativity, my time, my effort, my love. In the kitchen, I come alive. I feel like an orchestra conductor—every chop, stir, spice and scent moving in harmony. Cooking, to me, is composing a symphony, and I stand front-row as the audience tastes joy. I pray before I begin, and once Toni Braxton fills the room, my soul opens, and then the magic starts. My focus becomes razor-sharp. When it all comes together, the results never disappoint.

This year, one of my newly found aunts looked at me and said I have the gift of hospitality. What a powerful decree. It felt like a blessing and a mandate from the bloodline itself—to cook with love, to serve with joy, to let my talent flow freely. And so I did. I have been Van Gogh’ing in the kitchen, splashing colour into pots and laughter into rooms. Not a single complaint—only grateful bellies and smiling hearts. A win-win, I would say.

But I digress.

The heart of my rambling is this: today, let us be thankful.

Thankful for surviving a turbulent year.

Thankful for breath and belonging.

Thankful for family, for friends, for our careers and callings.

Thankful for every small victory, every quiet miracle, every moment that carried us forward.

Let us give thanks, deeply and deliberately. 🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾