Saturday Cooking Party with Bae

It started as a small thing—Saturday light spilling through the curtains, catching on glass and old paint, turning the hallway into something softer than it has any right to be. The apartment felt awake before we were, like the walls had been holding onto warmth from yesterday.

Saturday Cooking Party with Bae wasn’t really a party in the loud sense. It was the quiet kind: knives on a cutting board, water heating, the slow fog of something simmering. We moved around each other in that practiced way, not choreographed, just familiar. The sunlight kept shifting, finding new corners—then retreating—like it was tasting the room.

Some places feel temporary, like you can lift your life out of them in one afternoon. But every now and then, a home starts to live alongside you. You notice it in small sounds: a cabinet settling back into place, floorboards answering your steps, the hush that follows when the burner clicks off.

We cooked with the windows bright and the day wide open. Between stirring and tasting, there were pauses where nothing needed to be said. The kind of pause that makes you grateful for ordinary things: a warm room, a shared meal, the feeling that time is moving—yet, for a moment, letting you stay.

If you’re looking for a recipe, I don’t have one that can be written down. Just this: keep the light, keep the company, and let the kitchen do what it does best—turn a regular Saturday into something you’ll want to remember.