There was a little deli in my hometown called The Happy Horse.

Long before I ever owned it, I worked there as a high school student.

At the time, it was simply a job. A place where I learned how to work hard, move quickly, take care of customers, and understand the rhythm of a kitchen during a busy lunch rush.

But looking back now, I realize it quietly became so much more than that.

I just couldn’t see it yet.

I couldn’t have known that so much of what I was learning inside those walls would eventually follow me into classrooms, cookbooks, Practically Homemade—and even the way I think about food today.

Years later, as a single mom trying to rebuild my life and figure out what came next, an opportunity came along that felt both exciting and terrifying all at once:

The chance to buy The Happy Horse.

Even now, I can remember the feeling.

Equal parts hope and fear.

Because on one hand, it felt impossible.

I was a single mom. I didn’t have endless money or some perfectly mapped-out business plan. I was simply a woman trying to build a life for herself and her children while carrying a dream I wasn’t entirely sure I was qualified for.

But on the other hand…

Something inside me knew I had to try.

And thankfully, I wasn’t doing it alone.

My parents helped me make it possible to buy The Happy Horse. Looking back, I don’t think I fully understood at the time what a gift that was—not just the practical help, but having people who believed I could do something I wasn’t entirely sure I could do myself.

So I took the chance.

And honestly, I think buying The Happy Horse became the beginning of the life I am living now.

Not because it made me rich.

Not because it was glamorous.

But because it taught me what it felt like to build something with heart {and lots of Cookie Dough Brownies}.

The beautiful thing about The Happy Horse was that it was already loved long before I owned it.

The owners before me—who had once been my employers—had created something special. The food was good. People knew what they loved and came back for it again and again.

It already mattered to the community.

And I think one of the smartest things I did was recognize that.

When it became mine, I changed quite a bit about how it looked. I wanted to put some of myself into the space and make it feel like mine.

I hand-lettered the entire chalkboard menu that covered the wall. Every day, I changed the butcher paper with the day’s special. I made cosmetic changes and paid attention to all those little details that changed the feeling of the restaurant.

But the menu itself?

I changed very little—if anything.

Because it was already good.

I didn’t need to change something simply to prove it belonged to me.

And I think that taught me one of the most important lessons I’ve carried into everything I’ve created since:

Not everything needs to be reinvented.

Sometimes the magic is already there.

Sometimes your job is to recognize what’s working, care for it well, and slowly make it your own.

So that is what I did.

And somewhere along the way, I began to understand that people weren’t just coming through the door for sandwiches or soup.

They were coming for a feeling.

I didn’t have words for it then, but I certainly do now.

Comfort.

Consistency.

Connection.

A familiar place in the middle of everyday life.

I loved knowing what a regular was going to order before they said it. I loved watching people walk through the door and settle into their usual spot for lunch. I loved knowing that this little place had become part of someone’s ordinary day.

And maybe that’s where I first started to understand something that has shaped almost everything I’ve done since:

Food is never really just food.

Food creates belonging.

I certainly didn’t know then where my life would eventually take me.

I was just trying to run a little deli, raise my kids, pay the bills, and figure out what came next.

But The Happy Horse was teaching me all along.

It taught me confidence.

Creativity.

Leadership.

Hospitality.

Resilience.

It taught me that feeding people could become a career, yes.

But more importantly, it taught me that creating a place where people feel welcomed and cared for is meaningful work.

And maybe that is why I still think about it so often.

Because long before Practically Homemade, cookbooks, or millions of readers, there was a little deli in a small town where I first started learning that food had the power to connect people.

And somewhere between soup kettles, lunch rushes, handwritten chalkboard menus, and butcher-paper specials…

I slowly started becoming the woman I am today.

Sweet Wishes,
June

Come Gather With Me

If this story felt familiar, I’d love to have you join me. Gathered is my Sunday note about food, family, memories, and finding something meaningful in the ordinary moments of life.

Pull up a chair. There’s a place for you here. 🤍