The Month of the Avocado Toast
What a month cooking for a vegan family of surfers taught me about feeding real people — not just following a brief.
It was 2022. A family arrived at Tumbo — mom, dad, a little girl, their closest friends, two nannies, and a rotating cast of surfers, who came and went on no particular schedule. They rented two houses. They stayed a full month. And they were completely, strictly vegan.
I had cooked vegan before. But not for a month. Not for vegan children. Not with a new group of friends arriving every week with different preferences and different rhythms. I will be honest: that first year, I didn't go in alone. I found help — an Italian girl named Jessica, organized in a way I admire, who arrived with daily menus written out and a plan for every contingency. She was not going to be caught off guard. Neither of us was.
Breakfast had to be on the table by seven because of the children. The children woke up hungry, every single morning, without fail. But not everyone sat down at seven. So the table had to be set and ready — fruit, vegan yogurt, granola, oats. Always oats.
And then one morning, we made avocado toast. Just once, we said. A little treat. A change of pace.
That was a mistake we never recovered from. The children took one bite and looked at us like we had unlocked something sacred. But it wasn't just the children — the nannies fell just as hard. Then the adults. By the end of the first week, even guests who weren't vegan were wandering into the kitchen asking: can I have an egg with my avocado toast? The bread became a constant — alongside gallo pinto and other favorites, it was always on the table. But the toast? The toast had a special place in everyone's heart.
So we got creative. Avocado, obviously — but also pesto with tomato and cheese, mushroom toast with roasted pepper sauce, bruschetta variations. Always on the same bread — my sourdough, made by hand, every time. The toast became a canvas. The children became critics. It was, honestly, one of the more joyful creative challenges I've had in a kitchen.
By the time breakfast wrapped up — sometimes stretching to mid-morning because the surfers came in from the water in waves — it was already time to start lunch. There was no real pause. The kitchen was always moving.
Lunch was vegetables, always, but made interesting: cold soups, Asian noodles, Italian pasta, Costa Rican rice and beans with roasted vegetables, Mexican-style tacos filled with mushrooms, sweet potato, lentils, or hibiscus flower. With vegans, you have to think carefully about protein — it doesn't appear on its own. You have to build it into every meal with intention: frijoles, garbanzos, lentils, grain. It requires more thought than a menu that includes meat, not less.
And running through everything, every single day, was the cashew milk. Raw organic cashews, soaked, blended, strained — we made it fresh constantly. They went through bottles of it like water. The children drank it with their oats, the adults had it in their coffee, and somehow it was always almost gone. Milking cashews became part of the daily rhythm of that kitchen — as much a ritual as lighting the candle on my kitchen altar before the first pot went on.
As the days passed by, I wanted the food to be fun for the children. I kept asking myself: is this kid-friendly? Is this something a five-year-old will actually eat, or am I making something that's nourishing on paper and boring on the plate? These particular children were extraordinary eaters — curious, open, used to real food. But I still wanted every meal to feel like an occasion for them, not just sustenance. I think, if I'm honest, I was cooking partly for my own inner child too.
Every afternoon, without exception, appetizers at sunset. This is where you really cannot fall asleep. You have to stay sharp, stay creative, and never serve the same thing twice.
Sunset appetizers are a delicate art. They have to be beautiful enough to feel special, light enough not to ruin dinner, sturdy enough to survive if the group shows up twenty minutes late. You can't make too much — they'll fill up. You can't make too little — they'll be disappointed. It's a tightrope every single evening.
And then dinner. The feast. The moment where everything comes together.
With Jessica, dinner was an event. She made homemade gnocchi, butternut squash lasagna, elaborate Italian dishes that took most of the afternoon to build. And her desserts — I have to say it — were extraordinary. I am not a dessert person by nature, but she was meticulous about them. Little bonbons, small sweet things, nothing heavy but always something to close the meal with intention. Even a family that wasn't particularly into sugar would light up when she brought out her tray.
After she left, I found my own rhythm with dinner. Vegan burgers on homemade buns. Fragrant curries with jasmine rice. A pot of French lentils — hearty, deeply seasoned, the kind of thing people asked for again and again. And pizza night, which became a tradition. The first year it was always cheese-free — beautiful crusts, lots of vegetables, pure flavor. By the fourth year, people had relaxed. Some wanted it just as it was. Others asked for real cheese. Both versions on the table, always with a great crust and a lot of love.
For dessert on my own: frozen bananas blended with coconut and a handful of chocolate chips. The children were just as happy. Sometimes the simplest things land the hardest.
That group came back for four consecutive years. Different lengths of time — a month, three weeks, two weeks. Always the same message when they confirmed: they were coming back for the food. The jungle, the surf, the house — all of it was part of it. But the table was the anchor.
The second year I worked with Jessica again. By the third year, I said: I can do this alone. And I did. I enjoyed having no structure and being able to cook freely with no menu, anchored on instinct and using what was available.
What I learned that month — and the three years that followed — is that cooking for a group is never really about the food. It's about reading the room. It's about knowing when the children need something comforting and when the adults need something that surprises them. It's about staying creative under pressure, day after day, meal after meal, without losing the pleasure of it.
It's about being willing to make avocado toast forever once you've made it once.
Cooking for your family
this summer?
I have dates available in June, July, and August for private chef services — in the Osa Peninsula or wherever you're going. Families, groups of friends, extended stays. Real food, made from scratch, every day.
