There is a certain kind of silence that lives in the kitchen. It hums between the clatter of plates and the hiss of frying oil. It breathes behind the steam of boiling soup and hides under the rhythm of chopping knives. It’s the silence of those who prepare what they cannot partake. The silence of hands that build comfort for others but rarely touch it themselves.
Every morning in that Karen house, my day began before the sun and ended long after the stars. I knew every ingredient that built the family’s joy — the right spice for their stew, the perfect temperature for their tea, the balance between salt and sugar that made them smile. I learned their cravings, their allergies, their moods. I knew which child loved avocado, which one hated onions. I knew the husband’s favorite juice and how he liked his eggs. But they never learned me. They didn’t know my favorite meal or if I had eaten breakfast. I was the flavor, but not the feast.
To prepare what you cannot eat is to live a contradiction. Your hands create satisfaction you are denied. Your labor fills the room with warmth that never reaches you. You are the provider of pleasure but the receiver of none. It is not just physical hunger that hurts — it’s the erasure of self, the slow disappearance of your humanity in the service of others.
I began to notice that I was not alone in this invisible crowd. The world is full of people who cook but never taste. The caregiver who tends to the sick but has no one to tend to her. The teacher who shapes minds but goes home to loneliness. The employee who builds profits but cannot afford rest. The church worker who sets up communion but never takes part in fellowship. The mothers who feed their families but nibble only what remains. We are many — we are the cooks of the world’s abundance.
We prepare meals, projects, plans, and prayers for others. We decorate tables we will never sit at. We polish shoes that will walk away from us. We fix beds we will never sleep in. Our fingerprints are on everything, yet our names are on nothing. We live near the aroma of fulfillment, but the taste escapes us.
There was one evening I will never forget. The family had invited guests for dinner — a group of church leaders and business friends. I spent the whole day cooking. The kitchen was alive — garlic sizzling, beef browning, the oven glowing with baked potatoes. I moved like a dancer, guided by memory and muscle. The guests arrived, laughter filled the air, and I stood behind the curtain that separated the dining room from the kitchen. I heard the sound of plates clinking, the clatter of forks, the sighs of satisfaction. “This is delicious,” one said. “You’re blessed to have such good food,” another added.
Blessed. That word stung. Because I was the one who prepared the blessing, yet I was not counted among the blessed. I wanted to step out and say, “Do you know who made it?” But that would have been pride — and in our world, servants are not allowed pride. So I smiled quietly to myself and continued washing the dishes before they were done eating. I was the shadow of their celebration.
As I scrubbed the plates, I began to think of how many people live this way — how many people contribute to the joy of others without ever being acknowledged. The invisible hands that clean, mend, teach, and build. The people whose sweat seasons the world’s comfort. It dawned on me that the world runs on the labor of the uncelebrated. The visible success of the few is balanced on the invisible sacrifice of the many.
I saw this truth even in church. There were women who came early to prepare tea for the congregation, who cleaned the benches, arranged flowers, and made sure the microphones worked. They stood at the back during service, clapping quietly while others stood at the pulpit shining in the light. When the service ended, they were the last to leave, washing cups and wiping tables. Yet when it came time for recognition, their names were missing. The applause was for the speakers, not the servers.
And still, they came back every Sunday. Still, they served. Not because they loved invisibility, but because love was their nature. Their faith was pure — untainted by the need for credit. I realized that even though the world overlooked them, heaven must have their names engraved on walls of light.
Preparing what you cannot partake is not only a condition of poverty; it is the story of exploitation disguised as normal life. It is the woman who sacrifices her dreams to raise others. It is the man who works endlessly to feed a family that never asks how he feels. It is the nation where citizens pay for luxuries they will never see. It is the system that normalizes unequal reward for equal labor.
But here’s what I came to understand — the one who prepares holds power, even if the world refuses to see it. The table cannot be set without the server. The meal cannot exist without the cook. The light in the house cannot glow without the one who maintains it. Power is often disguised in humility. Service is not weakness; it is the foundation of every comfort others enjoy.
Yet, even power can become pain when it is constantly unacknowledged. When your giving becomes expected and your hunger becomes invisible, the soul begins to rot in quiet resentment. There were nights when I wanted to stop cooking altogether — to let them see how empty comfort becomes without hands like mine. But I couldn’t. Not because I was weak, but because service had become my language. I just wished someone would speak it back to me.
One day, a small thing happened that stayed with me forever. The youngest daughter — a little girl, maybe seven — walked into the kitchen while I was cooking. She watched silently for a moment, then asked, “Do you ever eat this food?” I froze. No adult had ever asked me that. I smiled and said, “Sometimes.” She looked at me, puzzled, and said softly, “That’s not fair.”
Her words pierced deeper than any sermon. In her innocence, she had named what everyone else refused to acknowledge. It was not fair. I realized then that injustice becomes normal only when adults stop naming it. Children still see truth before society teaches them blindness.
That night, when I went to bed, I wept — not from sadness, but from awakening. Because I finally understood that even when you cannot partake, the act of preparing is not meaningless. Service, when done with awareness, becomes prophecy. Every dish I prepared became a silent sermon — a testimony that love still exists, even when unreciprocated.
But I also learned that love must evolve. There comes a time when the cook must taste. When the giver must receive. When the servant must sit. Service without rest becomes slavery. Sacrifice without reward becomes self-erasure. I began to dream of a life where I could eat what I cooked — not just food, but joy, peace, and dignity.
Preparing what you cannot partake is not just a personal struggle — it is a societal disease. Nations are built by citizens who labor for the comfort of a few. Families are held by individuals who are never appreciated. Churches are run by people who are spiritually starving while others feed on visibility. The world thrives on a hierarchy of hunger — where one person’s fullness is maintained by another’s emptiness.
I started to ask myself difficult questions. What if the ones who cook stopped cooking? What if the invisible decided to walk away? Would the world collapse? Or would it finally see them? I think both. Because systems built on silent suffering cannot survive exposure. They depend on shadows. The day light enters the kitchen, the balance shifts.
That’s when I began to find my voice. I was no longer just a servant — I was a storyteller. The stories of those who prepare but never partake began to live inside me, waiting to be told. I carried them like seeds in my heart, knowing that one day, they would grow into something bigger than pain — they would grow into truth. And so, this book is my serving — not of food, but of honesty. My words are the meal I never ate. Every paragraph is a bite of freedom. Every memory is a spoonful of truth. I am still cooking, but this time, I’m eating too.
Every morning in that Karen house, my day began before the sun and ended long after the stars. I knew every ingredient that built the family’s joy — the right spice for their stew, the perfect temperature for their tea, the balance between salt and sugar that made them smile. I learned their cravings, their allergies, their moods. I knew which child loved avocado, which one hated onions. I knew the husband’s favorite juice and how he liked his eggs. But they never learned me. They didn’t know my favorite meal or if I had eaten breakfast. I was the flavor, but not the feast.
To prepare what you cannot eat is to live a contradiction. Your hands create satisfaction you are denied. Your labor fills the room with warmth that never reaches you. You are the provider of pleasure but the receiver of none. It is not just physical hunger that hurts — it’s the erasure of self, the slow disappearance of your humanity in the service of others.
I began to notice that I was not alone in this invisible crowd. The world is full of people who cook but never taste. The caregiver who tends to the sick but has no one to tend to her. The teacher who shapes minds but goes home to loneliness. The employee who builds profits but cannot afford rest. The church worker who sets up communion but never takes part in fellowship. The mothers who feed their families but nibble only what remains. We are many — we are the cooks of the world’s abundance.
We prepare meals, projects, plans, and prayers for others. We decorate tables we will never sit at. We polish shoes that will walk away from us. We fix beds we will never sleep in. Our fingerprints are on everything, yet our names are on nothing. We live near the aroma of fulfillment, but the taste escapes us.
There was one evening I will never forget. The family had invited guests for dinner — a group of church leaders and business friends. I spent the whole day cooking. The kitchen was alive — garlic sizzling, beef browning, the oven glowing with baked potatoes. I moved like a dancer, guided by memory and muscle. The guests arrived, laughter filled the air, and I stood behind the curtain that separated the dining room from the kitchen. I heard the sound of plates clinking, the clatter of forks, the sighs of satisfaction. “This is delicious,” one said. “You’re blessed to have such good food,” another added.
Blessed. That word stung. Because I was the one who prepared the blessing, yet I was not counted among the blessed. I wanted to step out and say, “Do you know who made it?” But that would have been pride — and in our world, servants are not allowed pride. So I smiled quietly to myself and continued washing the dishes before they were done eating. I was the shadow of their celebration.
As I scrubbed the plates, I began to think of how many people live this way — how many people contribute to the joy of others without ever being acknowledged. The invisible hands that clean, mend, teach, and build. The people whose sweat seasons the world’s comfort. It dawned on me that the world runs on the labor of the uncelebrated. The visible success of the few is balanced on the invisible sacrifice of the many.
I saw this truth even in church. There were women who came early to prepare tea for the congregation, who cleaned the benches, arranged flowers, and made sure the microphones worked. They stood at the back during service, clapping quietly while others stood at the pulpit shining in the light. When the service ended, they were the last to leave, washing cups and wiping tables. Yet when it came time for recognition, their names were missing. The applause was for the speakers, not the servers.
And still, they came back every Sunday. Still, they served. Not because they loved invisibility, but because love was their nature. Their faith was pure — untainted by the need for credit. I realized that even though the world overlooked them, heaven must have their names engraved on walls of light.
Preparing what you cannot partake is not only a condition of poverty; it is the story of exploitation disguised as normal life. It is the woman who sacrifices her dreams to raise others. It is the man who works endlessly to feed a family that never asks how he feels. It is the nation where citizens pay for luxuries they will never see. It is the system that normalizes unequal reward for equal labor.
But here’s what I came to understand — the one who prepares holds power, even if the world refuses to see it. The table cannot be set without the server. The meal cannot exist without the cook. The light in the house cannot glow without the one who maintains it. Power is often disguised in humility. Service is not weakness; it is the foundation of every comfort others enjoy.
Yet, even power can become pain when it is constantly unacknowledged. When your giving becomes expected and your hunger becomes invisible, the soul begins to rot in quiet resentment. There were nights when I wanted to stop cooking altogether — to let them see how empty comfort becomes without hands like mine. But I couldn’t. Not because I was weak, but because service had become my language. I just wished someone would speak it back to me.
One day, a small thing happened that stayed with me forever. The youngest daughter — a little girl, maybe seven — walked into the kitchen while I was cooking. She watched silently for a moment, then asked, “Do you ever eat this food?” I froze. No adult had ever asked me that. I smiled and said, “Sometimes.” She looked at me, puzzled, and said softly, “That’s not fair.”
Her words pierced deeper than any sermon. In her innocence, she had named what everyone else refused to acknowledge. It was not fair. I realized then that injustice becomes normal only when adults stop naming it. Children still see truth before society teaches them blindness.
That night, when I went to bed, I wept — not from sadness, but from awakening. Because I finally understood that even when you cannot partake, the act of preparing is not meaningless. Service, when done with awareness, becomes prophecy. Every dish I prepared became a silent sermon — a testimony that love still exists, even when unreciprocated.
But I also learned that love must evolve. There comes a time when the cook must taste. When the giver must receive. When the servant must sit. Service without rest becomes slavery. Sacrifice without reward becomes self-erasure. I began to dream of a life where I could eat what I cooked — not just food, but joy, peace, and dignity.
Preparing what you cannot partake is not just a personal struggle — it is a societal disease. Nations are built by citizens who labor for the comfort of a few. Families are held by individuals who are never appreciated. Churches are run by people who are spiritually starving while others feed on visibility. The world thrives on a hierarchy of hunger — where one person’s fullness is maintained by another’s emptiness.
I started to ask myself difficult questions. What if the ones who cook stopped cooking? What if the invisible decided to walk away? Would the world collapse? Or would it finally see them? I think both. Because systems built on silent suffering cannot survive exposure. They depend on shadows. The day light enters the kitchen, the balance shifts.
That’s when I began to find my voice. I was no longer just a servant — I was a storyteller. The stories of those who prepare but never partake began to live inside me, waiting to be told. I carried them like seeds in my heart, knowing that one day, they would grow into something bigger than pain — they would grow into truth. And so, this book is my serving — not of food, but of honesty. My words are the meal I never ate. Every paragraph is a bite of freedom. Every memory is a spoonful of truth. I am still cooking, but this time, I’m eating too.
