So here I sit in my living room in Wisconsin, with the chill of early spring seeping along the floor. I should probably stoke the fire, but I’m feeling too lazy, so I’ll endure it.
A week ago, I was sitting outside a beautiful historic ranch house, hiding in the shade from the fierce desert sun. I was supervising my almost two-year-old daughter, Madeleine, as she attempted to peel an orange.
In the shade, the warm air felt luxurious—almost enough to make me drift off—until Madeleine's protests broke in:
“Pay-eel it, Papa… you!”
As some of you know, we flew down to El Paso on short notice. One of my wife’s childhood friends works at a youth ministry there and called, asking if we’d be willing to come fill in as head cooks when their cook couldn’t make it at the last minute.
After a little thought, we said yes and booked the tickets.
It was a crazy feeling to leave Wisconsin with a massive snowstorm moving in and arrive in Texas as a heat wave hit. But there we were—white Wisconsinites in the land of sun and dust and heat.
One of the first things I always secretly look for when I’m in an unfamiliar place is the atmosphere of the food culture.
I opened the fridge in the house where we were staying.
“I wonder what kind of food people they are around here?”
The first thing I saw was a half-used stick of butter in the door labeled “grass-fed.”
Not a bad start.
The people there were incredible—thoughtful, generous, and ready with anything we needed.
As we settled in, I took on the role of primary caretaker for Madeleine while Tabitha went to work. She was cooking three meals a day for around a hundred teenagers who had come for a week-long spring break event.
It was a lot. Thankfully, she had help—but still, it was no small task.
And as I knew she would, she handled it beautifully with her perfect balance between practical planning and culinary instinct in the kitchen.
The kids loved the food. I can’t help but say it—I’m so proud of her. She’s such an amazing person.
Madeleine and I were able to stay close by throughout the day.
As usual with a kid her age, we bounced from digging in the dirt in the community garden, to the nursery with the dolls, to the “baby potty” (kid-sized bathroom) complete with a sink and towel dispenser.
We ran up and down the ramp between the auditorium and the office more times than I could count. We took walks around the block and watched the pigeons build their nests.
We even found some lemon sorrel and tasted it together—which she loved.
While Tabitha worked her magic in the kitchen, we played and had the time of our lives.
It was such a sweet time—outside my normal schedule—where I could focus solely on being with Madeleine for the week.
Each night, we were exhausted.
And each morning, we woke up ready to do it again.
It was also a different kind of role for me.
As a pastor and counselor, I’m usually the one who has to be out front—leading, speaking, carrying responsibility in a visible way.
This time, I wasn’t.
I got the privilege to be nothing but a support.
And there was something incredibly satisfying about that—knowing I could support Tabitha and help make it possible for her to shine in her gifting as a cook.
There’s a quiet kind of joy in simply helping provide for the people you love—making space for things to go right, even if no one else sees it.
The morning we left, the staff ordered in authentic Mexican food for breakfast. It felt like a fitting send-off.
As we said our goodbyes, it didn’t feel like we were leaving strangers. It felt like we were leaving friends—some we’d known for years, others we’d just met that week.
We were grateful.
And also very ready to sleep in our own cozy bed again.
Tabitha and I are homebodies, through and through. We don’t travel like that very often. But seeing those kids enjoy the food, watching them gather around meals that were thoughtfully prepared…
It made it worth every bit.
Because at the end of the day, that’s really what I’m passionate about—
good food that reflects the lavish goodness in God’s heart toward us, and how that brings us all together.
If that’s the kind of food you want to put on your table—food you can feel good about serving the people you love—you'll feel at home here.
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