It all started with a book.
One night at bedtime, we opened I Love You, Stinky Face – a sweet little story about a parent who loves their child no matter what they imagine becoming. A smelly skunk. A scary dinosaur. A swamp creature. With every page, my daughter’s reactions grew bigger.
“Ewww!”
“Ughhh!”
“Gross, Mama!”
Her nose wrinkled. Her face twisted. Then came the giggles.
And after every dramatic reaction, I’d smile and say, “Love you, stinky face.”
What began as a silly bedtime moment quickly turned into something much deeper.
Because love doesn’t have to be loud to be real. It doesn’t always show up in grand gestures or perfect moments. Most of the time, love lives quietly in the ordinary – in shared stories before sleep, in inside jokes only your family understands, and in routines that slowly build connection.
It reminded me that the love we’re waiting for – the love we imagine as something big and magical – is usually already around us.
We just have to notice it.
These days, life feels like a constant cycle of pick-ups and drop-offs. School runs. Activities. Practices. Quick snacks in the car. Conversations squeezed between red lights. We joke that we’ve become “Uber parents,” shuttling our kids from one place to another in a blur of schedules and backpacks.
Yet somewhere in the middle of all that chaos, love keeps showing up.
In the way my girls tell me stories about their day before I even ask.
In the way we laugh over spilled water bottles and forgotten homework.
In the way a simple “I love you, stinky face” can turn a tired evening into a moment of connection.
And it made me think about community – about how connection forms in the same quiet, everyday ways.
Photo provided by Pooja Thakkar
Just like families bond over bedtime stories, communities grow around shared tables, familiar recipes, and conversations that happen while passing food. We don’t always remember the big events, but we never forget how someone made us feel in small moments – the neighbor who brought soup when we were sick, the potluck dish that started a friendship, the story shared over chai or coffee.
In my work with Taste of Community, I’ve learned that the strongest relationships aren’t built through perfection – they’re built through presence. Through showing up with what we have. Through listening. Through creating spaces where people feel seen and valued.
Food, much like love, doesn’t need to be fancy to be meaningful. A simple meal can hold memories. A shared snack can open conversations. A familiar flavor can bring comfort after a hard day.
Just like a children’s book can hold a lifetime of lessons.
I used to think love needed to feel big to matter. Now I’m learning that the strongest love – in families and in communities – often looks small.
It looks like consistency.
It looks like care in everyday routines.
It looks like choosing connection over rush.
So if you ever find yourself waiting for life to slow down before you feel close – to your family, your neighbors, or your community – pause for a moment.
Notice the laughter in the backseat.
Appreciate the shared meals.
Lean into the ordinary chaos.
Because chances are, the love and belonging you’re hoping for is already there – in bedtime stories, car rides, familiar flavors, and a soft voice saying,
“Love you, stinky face.”
Pooja Thakkar is working to build connections through cuisine. You can read her column each week in the pages of The Reporter.