Forget fancy restaurants. Forget complicated recipes.

Nothing compares to the breakfast I ate this morning—a hearty serving of red potatoes with green and yellow wax beans fresh from the garden and all boiled together with a dash of oil.

The only extra ingredients needed for the vegetables when I put them on my plate were salt and butter. I watched the yellow pat melt like a tasty lava over the warm, quartered potatoes and hand-snapped beans. When all that remained was a spread of juice, I wanted to lick the bowl (but, polite, refrained).

Afterwards, while sipping a cup of morning coffee, I proudly reflected on my skills as a master chef.

Then, like the butter over those potatoes, understanding washed over me. I wasn’t a chef, or at best I was a sous chef. All I had to do was enjoy the buffet. My garden—with sun, rain, and soil—had really prepared the meal.

By Caroline Kalfas of Woolwich Township, NJ.