THE FIRST TIME I TASTED BANANA PUDDING WAS A REVELATION. One summer at my Aunt Janet’s, she served it like it was just another dessert. But baby… that thang was fire! I went back for seconds, then thirds, until I had to be told to stop! It was creamy, cool, and soulful. It didn’t just taste good, it felt like home.

My cousin Pia’s friends would stop by just for a taste, placing custom orders like it was a bodega: extra cookies, no bananas, more cream. Aunt Janet would smile and make whatever they wanted. She fed people with joy, teaching me that food could say I see you, I love you without a single word.

Feeding people became my love language. I was the kid always pushing desserts into people’s faces—Try this brownie. Taste this cheesecake. It wasn’t about showing off. It was about connection. As a Black gay boy growing up in New York, I craved connection, and my chosen family poured warmth into me. Sharing desserts became a way to show who I was, even when I couldn’t see myself.

Junior year of high school, my class held a cooking competition. I had a little rep for bringing sweets that actually hit, but this time I wanted the trophy. Why not Aunt Janet’s banana pudding—the one that had the whole block going bananas?

I gathered my ingredients, ready to start, until my mother shut down the kitchen for the night. If you know a Black mama, you know that once the kitchen’s closed, not even Jesus himself is allowed back in there.

But I wasn’t letting anyone stand between me and that pudding. I worked in my bedroom by the glow of the TV, mixed everything in secret, then crept into the kitchen to finish and wash the dishes in silence.

The next day, I walked into school like I was carrying gold—and I won the cook-off!

That pudding, made of defiance and tradition, became my first award-winning recipe. Not just dessert, but proof that where you start—and who tries to stop you—doesn’t define what you can build. Every sweet and nostalgic spoonful holds rebellion, family, grit, and love, a reminder that sometimes, when the kitchen door closes, you don’t wait for it to open.

You build your own.