Author: Mary Preston

I still remember the frantic, fluorescent-lit evenings back in my city life, standing in front of an open fridge and feeling that heavy, hollow ache of decision fatigue. I’d stare at a wilted head of kale and a half-empty jar of pesto, wondering why I couldn’t just figure out how to plan a week of […]

I still remember sitting on a weathered teak bench in a tiny Costa Rican village, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and roasting corn. There was no fancy plating or curated menu—just a heavy ceramic bowl of black bean stew passed between hands that had spent the day working the soil. In […]

I remember sitting at a small, weathered wooden table in a tiny cafe outside of Monteverde, the scent of damp earth and roasting coffee beans swirling around me. I watched a group of tourists at the next table, huddled together and frantically scrolling through their phones, barely tasting the meal in front of them. It […]

I can still smell the damp earth and crushed cilantro from that morning in a small village outside of Monteverde. I was standing there, camera hanging heavy around my neck, watching an elderly woman haggle over a bunch of radishes—not because she needed to save a few cents, but because the rhythm of the exchange […]

I remember sitting in a tiny, sun-drenched kitchen in a small village outside of Monteverde, staring at a single, lonely sweet potato and a handful of wilted greens. There was no grand feast, no bustling family table, just the quiet hum of the rainforest outside and the heavy realization that I had no idea how […]