The sun lingers a little longer. The soil warms. The herbs perk up from their spring slumber, and the flowers begin to bloom with purpose. June enters like a soft drumbeat—rhythmic, rooted, and radiant with life.

In New Orleans, June arrives with thick heat, gleaming sun, and air so humid it baptizes your skin. It’s the season of roadside watermelons cracked open like treasure, bundles of mustard greens tied with twine, and coolers brimming with just-picked produce—okra, corn, figs, and cucumbers sold from truck beds and porch steps.

In this sacred turning, the kitchen becomes an altar of abundance. The market is outside your car window. The blessing is in the sweat on your brow and the freshness in your basket.

Cooking with Intention

This week, we stir and season not just for flavor, but for memory.

When I walk down the aisles of the farmer’s market, I’m not just shopping—I’m remembering. I see the bright baskets of tomatoes, and I’m suddenly back on my grandmother’s patio. I’d watch her hum softly as she picked the ripest ones from the pots she tended so tenderly.

Her hands were gloved to protect her beautifully manicured nails—never a hair out of place, never a moment wasted. She used herbs to season and to heal. And always, just before the meal began, she’d pause… and whisper a quiet word of thanks.

Now, I carry that same reverence with me. In the way I choose ingredients. In the way I stir. In the way I serve.

Garden to Table, Spirit to Spoon

Let your table be lush, even if your fridge is sparse. Let your meals be mindful, even if they are simple. A humble soup with fresh chives and ancestral salt can become a sacred act when prepared with love.

In New Orleans, the farmer’s market might be a folding table under an oak tree or the back of a pickup truck on Claiborne. This week, walk slowly. Touch the peaches. Smell the basil. Buy something because your spirit says, “That’s the one.” Ask the elders selling produce what they’re cooking tonight—they’ll give you a recipe without writing it down.

Let your intuition lead your hands. Let your ancestors guide your seasoning. Say their names over the pot. Stir slowly. Cook as if every bite is a hymn.

What does abundance feel like in your kitchen?

Maybe it’s a pot of greens shared with a neighbor. Maybe it’s tomatoes on the vine, still warm from the sun. Maybe it’s your grandmother’s voice echoing through a recipe. Or maybe it’s the simple act of cooking for yourself with care. Whatever it is—hold it, taste it, honor it.

Prayer Over the Hearth

Divine Mother of the Earth. Ancestors whose hands still guide mine. Bless this kitchen with the energy of the harvest. May every herb I touch hold healing. May every pot I stir carry memory. May every meal I serve bring comfort, clarity, and connection. I honor those who cooked before me. I cook in light, I season with love, I feed more than the body.

Ase’