When my brother Michael came to visit, everything else could wait. He never gave more than a few days’ notice — he was an entrepreneur with too many ventures to plan too far ahead, but that didn’t matter. When he came, we cleared our schedules. We knew one day together was all we’d get. And we made it count — with love, with laughter, and with meals that pulled our past into the present.
Corned beef hash and eggs
A few weeks ago, Michael passed away after a short but valiant battle with cancer. He hadn’t started treatment yet when he came to visit that last time, so he still looked like himself — tanned, strong, full of warmth. We didn’t talk about the diagnosis. We just spent the day together. And I did what I knew how to do: I cooked.
Sunday brunch was sacred in our family. My father’s mother was the matriarch of the meal — slow food, rich food, food that lingered. Eggs scrambled with onions, peppers, and mushrooms, each vegetable sautéed slowly in enough butter to give a cardiologist nightmares. Bialys and bagels with nova lox, capers, sliced tomatoes, and red onions. Cut-up vegetables and fresh fruit served with sour cream and whipped cream. A platter of pastries — Danishes, coconut bars, and rugelach from her favorite bakery. No one ever left her table hungry.
For Michael, I tried to recreate every detail (except the olive-green décor). I sautéed the vegetables until they were soft and glistening, then added the eggs and scrambled them gently. I steamed artichokes — his favorite — and served them with small ramekins of melted butter. For dessert, I picked up pastries from Whole Foods. The kitchen filled with the smells of our childhood, and every bite felt like a benediction. That meal was my offering — one part tradition, one-part tears, and the rest of my heart.
Recently, I found myself at Sugar n’ Spice Diner in Blue Ash. I wasn’t trying to recreate that day. I just needed to eat — and remember what it felt like to be one of four siblings gathered around a brunch table.
Located at 10275 Summit Parkway, Sugar n’ Spice opened its Blue Ash location in early 2023. The diner sits on the historic site of the old Cincinnati–Blue Ash airfield, which dates back to 1921. It’s a cheerful space — bright pinks and blues, playful murals of pancakes, rubber ducks tucked into corners and the easy energy of a place where people gather for comfort.
What struck me most, though, was how familiar it felt — not just as a diner, but as a place that spoke fluently in the language of Jewish comfort food. Though not kosher, Sugar n’ Spice is deeply Jewish-adjacent — serving many of the same dishes that filled synagogue brunches and break-the-fasts.
On the menu? Corned beef, lox and bagels, rye toast, giant omelets, and potato pancakes that feel like a cousin to latkes. There’s even matzo ball soup at the original location. While not advertised as Jewish cuisine, the influence is undeniable — like a familiar melody hummed in the background.
I sat down with my fiancé and let myself breathe as we read the menu. Then, we ordered generously.
My fiancé chose the corned beef hash and eggs. They were just right — crispy, salty, and deeply satisfying. The hash had that golden-brown edge that comes from patience, not shortcuts. Topped with scrambled eggs, it tasted like a version of what my mother used to make.
Avocado Eggs Benedict
I had the avocado Eggs Benedict, a modern classic that was beautifully done. The poached eggs were tender, the hollandaise sauce light and lemony, the English muffin crisp enough to hold everything until the yolks broke and ran into the plate. The avocado added richness, the tomato a touch of brightness. It was simple, fresh, and quietly elegant.
Then came the challah bread French toast — thick slices soaked in custard and cooked to a golden finish. It was buttery, plush, and generously dusted with powdered sugar. Our server let us know the challah came from Sweet Butter Bakery — a place I now need to visit. There’s something deeply affirming about seeing challah — not white bread — used for French toast. It’s a nod, intentional or not, to the generations of Jewish cooks who made sweet things from humble leftovers.
Challah French toast
And, of course, we couldn’t leave without ordering the restaurant’s signature: the “wispy thin” pancakes. They looked like the lovechild of a crepe and a pancake — light, lacy, buttery on the edges. They were the taste of Sunday mornings. Not flashy, not trendy. Just perfect.
As I ate, I thought of Michael. He would’ve loved everything about this place — the food, the murals, the tables full of families passing syrup back and forth. It all would’ve made him smile.
A booth at Sugar n’ Spice Diner in Blue Ash
I didn’t tell anyone why I was there, or what I was remembering. But the food, the setting, and the quiet comfort of it all felt like permission to sit with my grief.
We don’t always get the endings we want. But we do get the chance to hold on to what matters. To make a meal with love. To sit down at a table and remember. Sometimes, in the right place, with the right plate in front of you, love lingers. And for a while, you feel it again.
