I was raised in Kosovo with my extended family, and parents were not given the opportunity of a formal education. As a child, I always wished for my mother to have the time to read a story, or some poetry before bedtime.
In my Perfect world, in front of the fireplace.
I dreamt of hand written letters I would be able to archive. Sometimes I thought, how cool it would have been if my mother had been a teacher.
I was lucky enough as a kid to attend school. My mission was to eventually be the first in my family to attain a diploma. I was excited and overjoyed, grateful to have been able to understand more about life and all things around me.
My great discovery was the realization of my first love letter I received from my mother in a flash of light. She had been working every day to keep us nourished and nonetheless together. Cooking for us was her love language, no words had been written but … it was a masterpiece of poetry each time.
All her beautiful energy she exhibited gave us all the love and nourishment we needed.
My mother was known for her constant passion through food. She is understood as a chef in my village. I’m still in awe of how she was always able to host and comfort anyone who had visited our home.
This is when I realized I had already been receiving her love letters every day through her love language. Her delicate way of showing us love was through her food. Our community will continue to honor her for her storytelling through her food as long as I am alive.
— Pajtim Osmanaj