I moved to the U.S. in the late ’80s planning to study psychology. Human behavior fascinated me—still does. But the universe, in all its twisted humor, had other plans. Instead of decoding minds, I found myself drawn to something far hotter: the kitchen.
What started as a pivot became a passion. I trained at the Culinary Institute of America and never looked back. Thirty-seven years later, I’m still a private chef, feeding people who think they just need dinner but really need a little comfort, honesty, or connection. Funny what a good meal can do. Sit someone at a table, feed them well, and you’ll see the truth quicker than in any therapy session.
The kitchen taught me more about human nature than any textbook ever could. And eventually, all those stories—the messy, hilarious, raw, and sometimes heartbreaking ones—needed somewhere to go. So I started writing.
And then the body rebelled.
Sarcoidosis and heart failure showed up like two guests who refused to leave. Chronic illness isn’t just part of my life—it shapes it. But instead of letting it define me, I let it fuel the work. I write about living with illness and about how joy and grief can share a seat at the same table. Storytelling has become both my survival and my salvation.
These days, I split my time between stirring pots and plotting pages. My Cavalier King Charles Spaniels snore at my feet while my cats silently judge me from the counter (they’re my cats, so yes, they are allowed anywhere).
If you’re living with chronic illness, you’re welcome here. If you feel like your story hasn’t been told, you’re welcome here. If you just need a place where sarcasm, softness, and spooned truths coexist, you’re welcome here. I saved you a seat.
If you’re curious, hungry (literally or metaphorically), or simply need to know someone else is navigating this messy, miraculous life with humor and honesty, pull up a chair.
Tate Basildon 