I never thought I would learn so much about life from a kitchen. One night, I must have been around ten years old; I sat on a tiny stool in my mother’s kitchen. She was teaching me multiplications tables while making dal. Cumin sizzling in ghee, garlic browning – the smell took over the entire house. I breathed it in, sat there, and waited. I didn’t know then that waiting, patience, care, and love – all of that – was what she was teaching me. I just knew it smelt like home.

Travel has given me lessons too. In Sri Lanka, I remember sitting on the floor with local women. Grinding coconut sambol with my hands. We laughed a lot. Didn’t speak much of the same language. Somehow it didn’t matter. Food spoke. In Italy, it was simple. Tomatoes, basil, olive oil. That was it. And it was magic. I didn’t need a recipe; I just watched, stirred, and tasted. In the US, Thanksgiving. I went to someone’s house once. It wasn’t the turkey or pie that stayed with me – it was the stories, the memories, and the way they talked while cooking. Welcoming me. Letting me be part of it.

At home, it’s different. I remember my daughter once stood on a stool next to me. With flour on her cheeks and chocolate on her hands, she tried to stir the curry and almost burnt her hand. We both screamed, then laughed. Sometimes we still burn the cake, spill the rice, and oversalt the curry. Doesn’t matter. We just laugh. That’s all that matters. Recently she dumped a whole jar of sugar into a recipe. I almost cried. Then we ate it anyway. And laughed.

And yes, there have been disasters. Burnt rice, forgotten lentils, trays dropped right in front of guests. Once I planned to cook dal and rice but forgot to cook the dal entirely and realised it 5 minutes before dinner. We ordered from the street vendor. It was better than mine anyway. You learn. You move on.
Mistakes sometimes make things better. Life is the same.

Food connects people. It doesn’t matter if it’s dal and roti in India, sambol in Sri Lanka, pasta in Italy, or pie in the US. Everyone understands a shared meal. Food holds memory. Food holds culture. Food holds love.

Now, when I tie my apron, it’s not just cooking. It’s remembering my mother, laughing with my daughter, thinking of women I met on floors in villages abroad, smelling streets, spices, and kitchens everywhere. All of it. Cooking shows me life – messy, imperfect, and full of flavour. And it’s meant to be shared. Always.