“Food is my love language—but sometimes it comes out in messy, imperfect dialects.”

Let me introduce myself properly:

I’m Abdul wasay, who traded restaurant whites for a keyboard, only to realize my hands still smell of garlic and my heart still beats in ¾ time (the rhythm of every good sauce simmer). This isn’t just about recipes—it’s about the stories we knead into dough, the memories we caramelize into desserts, and the quiet revolution of cooking a meal that says, “You matter.”

My kitchen chronicles began in my grandmother’s cramped apartment, where she taught me to layer phyllo dough and life lessons with equal patience. “Always taste as you go—in food and choices.” Now, I write for the tired parent craving a 20-minute miracle meal, the homesick student missing their mother’s spice cabinet, and anyone who’s ever cried over lumpy gravy.

“Behind every ‘Instagram-perfect’ dish is a chef who’s burned their pinky finger six times and considered ordering takeout.”

When I write about the crisp bite of an apple pie, I write about autumn mornings with my father at the orchard. When I demo a 5-ingredient soup, I whisper: “You’re enough, exactly as you are.”

Let’s make kitchens kinder places—where smoke alarms don’t shame us, and every slightly-wonky pie crust is a triumph. 

“The table is set. Bring your appetite and that half-empty bag of flour in your pantry. We’ll figure it out together.”