A Cozy Kitchen Cookbook

Introduction

My love of food started early. I would stand in our not-so-cute, dimly lit brown kitchen in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, pretending I had my own cooking show while making French toast for my little brother, Daniel. I’d crack eggs into a bowl of whole milk, add a splash of McCormick imitation vanilla, and dip slices of grocery-store wheat bread before sizzling them in butter. My brother loved it, and I’d narrate the whole process like I was on TV, talking to an imaginary camera crew. I was six going on Ina.

Growing up in South Florida meant being surrounded by a mash-up of flavors—Cuban, Colombian, Peruvian, Jamaican, and Dominican. But my love of cooking came from inside our home. On Sundays, my abuelito Blasco—my mom’s dad—would come over to teach my Colombian dad how to cook all the classic Peruvian dishes: lomo saltado, arroz chaufa, ají de gallina. He’d walk my dad through the recipes step-by-step, and I’d be there too, hovering in the background, observing and absorbing. The clatter of pans, the smell of ají amarillo and garlic in the air, the back-and-forth in Spanish. It felt like magic. There was no formal “This is how you cook” moment—just a steady passing down of flavor and memory, from my grandparents to my parents to me.

By the time I was a teenager, I was the one planning our holiday meals. I’d draft ambitious menus and assign dishes like a boss, even though my actual cooking skills were . . . developing. One year I planned a Cuban-Japanese Christmas, with mojitos, cigars, and soba noodles. Another year we attempted an Italian-style Feast of the Seven Fishes. I was shocked by how into it everyone got. Even the noncooks pitched in—someone organized poker and domino games, my uncle tracked down Cuban cigars, and someone else brought an ancient bottle of Havana Club from the ’70s. It wasn’t perfect (the fish was probably overcooked), but it was joyful and full of heart.

Was everything flawless? Not even close—I could barely cook. But I followed recipes I found online and in magazines and cookbooks, and somewhere between the mismatched themes and slightly dry fish, my passion for cooking truly began to thrive. Looking back, those themed dinners were my first real taste of what I love most about food: the way it brings people together. Culture, connection, comfort—whether through a dish you’ve eaten a hundred times or one you’re making up as you go. My ambition was always a little ahead of my skills, but that’s part of the fun.

A few years after college, now in Los Angeles and stuck in a corporate job that felt like wearing someone else’s blazer, I found myself thinking about that little girl in the kitchen—the one with the imaginary camera and the big feelings. What would it look like to return to that joy? That question became A Cozy Kitchen, a blog built on nostalgia, warmth, and approachable recipes that made people feel something.

Since then, a lot has changed. I’ve grown up—in love, in life, in the kitchen. I’ve cooked my way through heartbreak, through new beginnings, through uncertainty and joy. I became a mother! My community grew from a few loyal blog readers to hundreds of thousands of you across Instagram, TikTok, and beyond. And somehow, this thing I started as a creative outlet has turned into a full-on career. Now I get to spend my days dreaming up recipes, filming cozy videos in my kitchen, and sharing little pieces of my life with all of you. It’s humbling, it’s wild, and it still blows my mind that I get to call this work.

With each season of life, the way I cook has shifted too. Long, elaborate recipes lost their charm. What I craved was food that felt good and doable. I wanted things that were satisfying without being complicated, joyful without requiring a trip to three specialty stores. There’s a clarity and intention to A Cozy Kitchen now that came only with time, love, loss, and real life.

To me, cozy isn’t just about comfort—though, yes, comfort is very much invited. It’s also about ease, intention, and beauty. Cozy is food that feels good, looks good, and makes you want to tie on an apron even when you’re still wearing your pajamas. It’s about food that fits your mood—and meets you exactly where you are.

Over the years, I’ve realized I cook emotionally. When I’m hormonal or just feeling a little fragile, I reach for something decadent and sweet. When I need a reset, I want something green, crunchy, and enormous. When I’m short on time (but still want something cozy), it’s a lemon orzo situation that comes together in twenty minutes. And when the weather’s warm and the vibes are high, I’m layering cold cuts and pickled things onto a giant picnic sandwich that begs to be eaten outside.

That’s why I wanted to write this book: It’s kind of organized by season, a little bit by meal type, but it’s really organized by mood, because that’s how I cook (and I’m guessing that might be how you cook too). Some nights call for carby, cheesy comfort. Others want something clean and crunchy that makes you feel like your best self. Sometimes you’re feeding a friend who just got their heart broken. Other times you’re simply trying to make lunch for yourself without spiraling into snack chaos. Wherever you are, there’s a recipe here to meet you there.

Each chapter sets a vibe and a pace. Some are slow and meandering, like Weekend Baking Mode—perfect for when you want to lose track of time and end up with a kitchen full of warmth and confectioners’ sugar. Others are built for speed and ease, like Quick to the Table, which exists for those nights when your brain is a little fried but you still want something that tastes like you tried. There are chapters for cozy cravings, like Sweater-Weather Things, full of meals that wrap around you like your softest blanket. There are feel-good power-ups, like When We Need a Reset, that refuel you without tasting like a chore. And then there’s Hot Days, Cool Plates—a love letter to snacks, dips, and sips that don’t ask you to turn on the oven. Think of this book like a choose-your-own adventure, where the destination is always something delicious and the route is whatever works for you that day.

There’s no one way to get cozy. Some days, it’s about standing at the stove while something bubbles away and makes your whole home smell like comfort. Other days, it’s assembling something unfussy and eating it cross-legged on the couch. However you use these recipes—whether you follow them to the letter or treat them like a jumping-off point—I hope they help you feel nourished, grounded, and a little more at home with yourself.

That’s what this book is—a celebration of mood cooking. Of cozy cravings. Of trusting yourself enough to say: “What do I actually want to eat right now?” and then making it happen in a way that feels good, not stressful. These recipes are meant to support you—whether you’re in lazy mode, party mode, I-just-need-to-get-dinner-on-the-table mode, or all three in the same week. This is a book about feeling things and cooking through them.

The kitchen has always been my refuge. It’s the place I go to to cope with life’s highs and lows. I go there to celebrate, to cry, to reset, to laugh. It’s where my whole life unfolds—over cutting boards, mixing bowls, and stovetops. No matter what’s going on, the kitchen is where I return to myself. If that sounds familiar—if the kitchen has ever held you in that same quiet, grounding way—then you’re in the right place. Come on in. Let’s get cozy together.

—Adriana