It’s always been this way.

Or at least, for as long as I can remember: I’ve always loved writing. I was around eight or nine years old when I first started keeping a journal, scratching out onto paper the words in my head. For years I wrote daily, filling a motley collection of notebooks with pencil. My habits changed as I grew, as did my style, maturing out of merely delineating the facts of the day into letting writing be the record and the release of my thoughts, emotions, and prayers.

My dad instilled in me a love of vocabulary (maybe a little too well as some of my younger pieces sound like I had a thesaurus open in my brain), and I continued to enjoy writing in school, college, and as other publication opportunities came my way. Now, in my mid-30s, I rarely journal, but I’ve come to realize that writing is part of me, something I need to do for my soul.

But writing about food? Ten years ago I never ever would have seen that coming. Yet one unexpected thing led to another, and suddenly I found myself writing a weekly column on local, seasonal food for the local newspaper. That’s essentially all the directive I had — write an article about something food-y, and create a recipe to go along with it.

For five years, every week I had a deadline, every week I was snapping photos of something I cooked. Sometimes the relationship between the article content and the recipe was obvious, and sometimes it was a stretch, even for me; often the recipe itself was a stretch for everyone except for me. Consider yourself warned, I do not have a standard Midwestern palate.

And as I wrote, about why local food is important on so many levels; about specific produce items or cultural traditions or holiday foodways; about what was happening in my house and what we were cooking; I found myself never at a lack for words. My relationship with food has not always been straightforward, but the more I write, the more I understand what a gift of grace God has given us in the sharing, eating, and growing of food. It nourishes us, body and soul, individually and collectively.

We can’t survive without food, but food alone can also never satisfy. In simultaneously tangible and spiritual ways, food is connection: to the earth, to ourselves, to those around us. Writing about food week after week brought me unanticipated connection within my community, and a deeper gratefulness in myself for the simple and complex ways food is a blessing.

It’s also brought me more dirty dishes, but that seems to be the way life goes anyway. Brian and I didn’t have a dishwasher for the first eight years of our marriage, and the magic hasn’t worn off in the three years since, so it’s all good.

I mourned saying goodbye to my column earlier this year, so I’m thrilled and grateful to have a weekly deadline again. I’m excited for the opportunity to connect with those around me in this unique way as we think about local, seasonal food, and how it impacts our lives.

Welcome Pot of Chai

This is my favorite way of welcoming people into my home — I default to it any time of year, but this fall weather makes a nice hot, spiced tea even better. I’ve lived in Kenya for a little over a year total, where chai has to be the national beverage; while I liked it anyway, that has clinched my devotion to it forever. I like chai from a tea bag or an instant powder or a spiced syrup or however it gets made, but most of all I like it made with whole spices and plenty of milk in my bright red kettle. Even if guests have never had it before they come to my house, I rarely find anyone who objects once they’ve tried it (or as I like to say, chai-ed it).

Prep tips: the word “chai” actually just means “tea” in Swahili, and Kenyans don’t always add the spices. Variations of chai are found all over, from India to Somalia, so there is no one best way — this is just how I like it. I don’t ever measure any of it, but this recipe is a good place to start. Traditionally it’s served very sweet, so try it this way first and then make it your own from there.

4 cups water

4 cups whole milk

2 tablespoons looseleaf black tea (or 4-6 tea bags)

½ cup sugar or local honey (optional; see prep tips)

2-3 cinnamon sticks

1” fresh ginger, sliced

6 cardamom pods, cracked open

6 whole cloves

6 peppercorns

Add all ingredients to a medium-sized kettle. Bring to a simmer, and keep it at a simmer for 10 minutes (don’t let it boil, or you might have it all over your stove ... I am speaking from many such experiences). Remove from the heat and let sit for a couple minutes, then very carefully strain the tea into a carafe or other kettle for serving. Refrigerate any leftover to serve iced the next day.

Amanda Miller lives with her husband, almost-two-years-old son, and whoever else God brings them through foster care on the family dairy farm in Hutchinson, Kansas. She enjoys doing some catering, teaching cooking classes, and freelancing, but mostly chasing after her kid(s). Reach her at hyperpeanutbutter@gmail.com.