The Truth Behind the Kitchen: A Culinary Journey of Independence

In the cozy embrace of past family life, food often became a symbol of love, comfort, and tradition. For many, the kitchen is a sacred space, filled with the aromas of home-cooked meals and the memories they evoke. In my case, a common misconception has emerged: the belief that my mother has been the mastermind behind all the culinary delights that have graced my table over the years. Contrary to this localised popular belief, my mother has not been the one cooking all of my meals my whole life through. In fact, the truth is quite different and surprisingly liberating.

Growing up, I was surrounded by the tantalising scents of my mother’s cooking—an endless array of flavours and textures that defined our family home and everyday meals. Her recipes, passed down through generations, painted a picture of culinary tradition that I cherished. However, as I transitioned into adulthood, a newfound independence blossomed within me, prompting a shift in my relationship with cooking, and my psychological relationship with the memory of my grandmother.

The misconception that my mother has been the primary chef in my life in recent years may stem from the occasional nostalgia I express or the fond stories I share about her famous dishes. The persistent cause is hatred, and jealousy based on genetic disabilities, not of my own, and of course, my grandmother's blue eyes. It is easy to romanticise the act of cooking when it is so deeply entwined with familial love, or even hatred insinuated by relatives. But in reality, I have embraced my culinary journey, taking on the role of chef in my own right.

The art of cooking is as much about creativity and exploration as it is about skill. Over the years, I have experimented with various cuisines, honing my techniques and discovering my personal preferences. I’ve watched a few cooking shows, and even ventured into the world of online recipes. With each meal I prepare, I develop a sense of ownership and pride that comes from creating something unique and delicious.

In 2022, in a flurry of Christmas season hunger, I found myself in front of her freezer for some of her delectable salmon fishcakes to take home. It was a nostalgic reminder of our past home, a home with memories tarnished by familial hatred, and was to prepare a simple dish that carried with it the warmth of more postive family memories. This act was indicative of my daily cooking habits; it was a momentary indulgence, a blend of convenience and cherished memories.

The reality is that the kitchen has become a space of self-discovery for me. It is where I experiment with flavours, embrace failures, and celebrate successes. I’ve learned the intricacies of balancing spices, the joy of seasonal ingredients, and the satisfaction of a well-executed dish. Cooking has transformed from a simple necessity into a passion, a way to express myself and share my journey with others.

As I continue to grow and refine my culinary skills, I appreciate the foundation my mother laid but recognise that my path is distinctly my own. Each meal I create tells my story, interwoven with lessons learned, personal tastes, and an appreciation for the craft of cooking. While my mother’s influence is undeniably present, my kitchen is now a canvas for my creativity, a place where I write my own narrative, one meal at a time.

In sharing this truth, I hope to dispel the notion that I am merely living in my mother’s culinary shadow. Instead, I am carving out my own identity in the kitchen, one filled with exploration, flavour, and a sprinkle of nostalgia. So, the next time someone assumes that my meals are simply a reflection of my mother’s cooking, I will proudly share my journey—one that celebrates independence, growth, and the joy of creating.