Romina

I grew up in the same house my parents bought in 1998 on the north side of Phoenix, the one with the cracked driveway and the orange tree that always drops fruit on the sidewalk. I started cooking at two in the morning when my little brother would come home from shifts at the tire shop and swear he hadn't eaten since noon. Now I do the same thing for myself, chopping garlic while the city outside is quiet and sending voice notes of the sizzle to whoever is still awake. I work as a freelance stylist for small local brands that shoot out of borrowed houses with good light, and my camera roll is half outfits and half the meals I plate on those same counters. I want someone who texts me back the next day about the recipe and also about what they were thinking when they saw the last picture I posted. I like when things get slow and heavy, when the only sound is the ice machine and my breathing gets a little louder than the fridge. I flirt like I cook, tasting as I go, never rushing the heat but never turning it off either.