Steam of Hope

I was lucky enough to be raised by my grandmother on my maternal side. She wasn't just a caregiver-she was a spiritual teacher who used food as a language of faith. She always said, "Put your faith in everything you cook so it could become more than enough. "As a child. I didn't understand it. But as grew older and had to feed my own family, her words became my lifeline.

Ther was a time I had just enough beef stew to feed three people-but we were six in the house. I stood over the pot, stirring slowly, silently repeating my grandmother's words. I didn't just add spices- I added hope, prayer. and memory. By the time I dished up, somehow everyone had a piece. There was enough. Not much-but enough.

That night, as we cleaned our plates. I thought of my grandmother on my paternal side. She lived in a small village, but her spirit was larger than life. Hope was everything to her. And one memory of her will always stay with me.

I was five years old. It was Christmas Eve. There was no money, no food in the house-even a teabag. But my grandmother woke us up and asked us to help her prepare the fire. She placed pots on the stove and poured in water. Nothing else. Just water.

We gathered around, thinking something magical was coming. The water began to boil, and stem filled the small kitchen. The windows fogged. The air grew warm. She stirred it gently, occasionally opening the lid to release more steam. We watched with innocent belief that food was on the way.

She didn't say a word about there being no meat, no rice, no vegetables. I nstead,she told us, "When you believe in something long enough,sometimes it shows up just in time". That night, we went to bed full- not from food, but from faith. The hunger in our bellies was hushed by the comfort in our hearts.

In the morning, we woke up and realized there had been nothing in the pot but water. No miracle feast. No secret dish. But her actions left a mark. That moment planted something in me: a seed of resilience.

Now every time I see steam rising from a pot in my own kitchen, I remember both my grandmothers. Their strength. Their faith. Their quiet ways of providing love when there was nothing material to give.

They taught me that food is not always about ingredients- It's about spirit. It's about standing in front of an empty pantry and still believing that something good will come. It's about turning a small stew into a meal for six. It's about boiling water and calling it hope.

Today, when I cook for my family or share recipes online. I try pass on what they gave me. Not just how to cook, but how to hold on. How to stir with intention. How to believe even when the pot is nearly empty.

It also played a big role on not wasting food. I make so much with leftovers if i have leftovers rice, I make fried rice adding all the flavours that brings back the freshness, with chicken curry or stew beef I use to make sandwiches that still feed my family saving it for going to waste, All of those memory helps me do better, and make good decisions when comes to food and Budgeting for it.

Because sometimes, all you have is steam-and the courage to believe it means something more.

"In my grandmother's kitchen, the most important ingredient was always faith."