A Quiet Moment: The Heart of The Belgian Press

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I turned fifty this year. I am not sure how I feel about it. I do not feel fifty. I do not look fifty. I do not act fifty. But I am fifty. I am in a season of life where I am finally able to breathe. I am able to slow down and enjoy the flowers. I am able to enjoy my children and grandchildren. I am able to enjoy my husband. I am able to enjoy my life.

I have spent most of my life taking care of everyone else. I have spent most of my life rushing. I have spent most of my life in survival mode. I have spent most of my life trying to be enough. I have spent most of my life trying to be what everyone else needed me to be. I have spent most of my life being tired.

But something shifted. Something changed. Something softened. I am not sure when it happened, but it did. And now, for the first time, I am learning how to be myself. 

I grew up in a childhood that was not gentle, and I moved straight from that into a marriage that lasted twenty‑one years. When I finally left, I walked out with nothing but my clothing. That same day, I signed the lease on my first apartment and purchased my first car on my own. I was forty years old, standing in the middle of a life I had never lived before.

I had spent my adult years in the medical field. I entered it out of interest, and it eventually became survival because it paid well. It was a career that taught me strength, but it also taught me how easy it is to disappear inside a system that never stops moving. I worked hard. I showed up. I did everything I was supposed to do, yet inside I felt invisible.

Starting over at forty was exciting and frightening. The life I imagined for myself once my children were grown vanished overnight. I stood in my bare kitchen with one fork, one spoon, one plate, one pan, and one pot. When I finally purchased my first bed, my first couch, my first dining table, and the décor that made my apartment feel like mine, I realized I could do it. Six months after leaving, I looked around my home and understood that I had built something on my own for the very first time.

 During the last year before I left my old life behind, doctors finally discovered a large mass that had been growing inside me for many years. I had been misdiagnosed for at least five years, and by the time it was found, I was exhausted from the pain, the uncertainty, and the long search for answers. My mother had passed away only a few months earlier, and I was already carrying more grief than I knew how to hold.

The surgery to remove the mass was long and difficult. My daughter was the one who stood beside me through the process and the recovery. Her presence gave me strength when I felt completely worn down. The fatigue and pain that followed, combined with the clarity that comes when you face something so serious, became the final push I needed to step into a new life. I knew I could not continue living the way I had been living. I needed something different. I needed something that felt like mine.

In 2019, everything changed. I met Ken. From the beginning, he cared for me rather than waiting for me to take care of him. He wanted to be around me. He wanted to make sure I had what I needed physically, mentally, and financially. Two weeks after we met, he let it slip that he would marry me one day. I laughed because I thought he was joking. We barely knew each other, and I had never been loved that quickly or that openly. 

A lot of firsts happened after I turned forty. I am living proof that old dogs can learn new tricks.

Ken and I married one short year after meeting. In the height of COVID, when the medical field was stretched beyond breaking, he gave me the chance to walk away from the job that was consuming me. I was exhausted, in pain, and living with a chronic illness. No matter what I faced, he stood beside me and told me I could do anything I set my mind to.

In 2022, we decided to relocate. We put our home in Elgin on the market, and it sold quickly. We purchased a piece of property in Bridge Creek and had our home built not far from my daughter and her family. Once we settled in, I wanted something to fill my time. I began baking again. It felt familiar and comforting, and it gave me a sense of purpose during a season of transition.

Ken told me I could make a little money from what I made, and at first I thought about setting up a small farm stand. That idea grew into something bigger, and soon I found myself at the local farmers markets.

I have always loved baking. I love nostalgia and the way a warm cookie can make anyone smile. It does not matter if you are young or old. A cookie brings a moment of happiness.

At my second farmers market, someone returned to tell me that my cookie reminded them of their childhood and of walking to a local bakery with friends. You cannot receive a better compliment than creating something that brings someone back to a happy moment in their life. I sold out that day. For the first time, I felt seen.

I started out with cookies in the trailer, but it did not take long to realize it was not a realistic business plan. Oklahoma heat melts everything, and the cold is just as unforgiving. I needed something that could survive the weather and allow me to work in air conditioning and heat. I did some market research and thought long and hard about waffles. Who does not love a good waffle.

I wanted them to be indulgent. A thick Belgian waffle that was crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside, topped with fruits, creams, chocolates, candies, or whatever came to mind. They were a hit. That success pushed me to keep researching. What could pair well with waffles. Crêpes.

I have always loved crêpes. Soft, delicate, airy, and eggy. I knew I could make them at home, but I did not know if I could make them on a larger scale. I spent a few months practicing on a commercial iron until I got good at it. Around that time, Ken surprised me with a trip to France. I was able to try true French crêpes, and that was it. I knew I was headed in the right direction. I saw how they were made and what they should taste like. Not crisp like street‑food crêpes, but soft and delicate like a French café.

I also knew I could not serve tiny, barely‑filled crêpes. I needed to Americanize them a little. At our first large event, I went all out, and again, they were a hit. People loved them.

Our drinks matter to me just as much as the food. When my children were little, I did not keep soda in the house. It was a treat, not a daily drink. I wanted to serve drinks that anyone could enjoy. It is important to me that kids can come to our trailer and eat and drink without parents worrying about what they may get. I would never let my children or grandchildren drink those fancy dirty sodas or energy concoctions. They are filled with chemicals, even the ones labeled all natural. They will never be on my menu.

I serve organic lemonade, fresh brewed iced teas, sparkling water drinks, and coffee. I add real fruit purées, fruit nectars, and flavored syrups to some of them. I take pride in knowing what goes into everything I serve, and it matters to me. Not everything is organic or one hundred percent natural, but I do my best to source products without artificial dyes or flavorings. I also have to be realistic. I am a food trailer, and I want to keep my prices approachable. I am also required to source ingredients from regulated companies per health regulations, not from local growers or makers. Those are not my rules, but it is the reality of operating a food business.

All of it came together slowly. Waffles, crêpes, and crafted drinks. A menu built with intention, care, and a little bit of European influence tucked into every bite and sip.

Inside my trailer, when the first guest walks up, my heart still pounds. I wonder if I will get it right. I wonder if I will mess something up. I wonder if they will ask something I do not know. Then they take their first bite. Their face softens and their eyes brighten. In that moment, I know I am exactly where I am meant to be.

Everything I make is fresh. Nothing sits under a heat lamp. Nothing is rushed. I care deeply about what I feed people because this is not just food. It is my craft, my heart, and my story.

Now I have regulars who come and know exactly what they want. As soon as I see them, I already know what they are getting. Ken always asks, “Is that a regular,” and I say yes. “Where are they from.” Blanchard. Mustang. Sometimes just down the road. People actually drive to come to my little European‑inspired trailer, and that gives me hope that the dreams I had thirty years ago may still come to fruition.

There is a gentleman who visits often. He opens his waffle box right there in line and shows strangers what he ordered. He says, “I do not know her, but look at this. It is amazing.” He has no idea what that does to me. Moments like that carry me through the long days, the doubts, and the fears.

The Belgian Press is not just a business. It is my personal growth. It is the proof that I am enough. It is the life I built after surviving everything that tried to break me.

I did not do any of this alone. Ken stands beside me at events, not as the face of the business, but as the steady support I never imagined I would have. He sets up, tears down, carries the heavy things, and keeps an eye on me when the days run long. He believes in this little European‑inspired trailer as much as I do.

My children are grown and building beautiful lives of their own. My grandbabies are thriving. My home is full. My heart is full. There is a peace in this season of life that I never expected to find, and it settles over me every time I unlock the trailer door and turn on the lights.

Turning fifty does not feel like an ending. It feels like the beginning of the best chapter of my life. I spent the first half of my life rushing. Now I get to stroll. I get to breathe. I get to savor the flowers, the waffles, and the life I built with my own two hands.

One day, The Belgian Press will become a brick and mortar café. It will be European and warm, and it will feel like home. A quiet place for the community to gather, rest, and feel cared for. Even now, in my little trailer, I am already living that dream.

Because I did it. I got past every hurdle. I became the woman I always hoped I could be. And I am just getting started.