There’s something deeply comforting about the sound of garlic hitting a hot pan or the smell of something slow-cooking on a Sunday afternoon. Food, for many of us, goes beyond the plate. It’s memory, emotion, and often—therapy. Whether you’re a full-blown home chef or someone who knows their Uber Eats driver by name, we all have a food story. So today, I’m pulling up a chair and inviting you to think about the meals that shaped you and maybe even share a recipe that’s become a permanent part of my own kitchen.
Let’s be real: food blogs can sometimes feel like you have to scroll through someone’s life story just to get to the damn lasagna recipe. But this isn’t about a recipe yet. It’s about that moment when food stopped being just something to eat and started becoming something to feel.
For me, it started with tomato soup.
Not the fancy, roasted San Marzano kind with basil oil and grilled sourdough. I’m talking about the Campbell’s can, mixed with milk, stirred on the stovetop by my mum while the rain battered the windows. Served in a chipped white bowl, with two pieces of heavily buttered toast cut diagonally (because straight lines are for rookies). That soup never failed to make me feel safe. It was never about the taste it was about everything that came with it: warmth, care, and the sense that even if the world outside was chaotic, the kitchen was a calm little island.
That’s the magic of food.
Years later, I learned how to make my own tomato soup from scratch. Not to “upgrade” the experience, but to reclaim that memory and reimagine it. I charred the tomatoes under the grill, used fresh thyme, and simmered it with a parmesan rind because I’d read somewhere that it adds umami. It was incredible, sure but nothing could compete with that can of soup and toast on a rainy afternoon. Still, I realized that cooking wasn’t about replicating nostalgia. It was about evolving it.
Food also teaches us patience in a world obsessed with speed. There’s a lesson in risotto standing there, stirring slowly, adding broth a ladle at a time. You can’t rush it. Try to, and you’ll ruin it. But give it your attention, and it rewards you with something rich, creamy, and undeniably satisfying. I think cooking, when done without stress or obligation, is one of the purest ways to be present. No phone, no emails, just you, your ingredients, and the moment.
And then there’s baking a universe of its own. Baking is like edible science. You mix exact measurements, say a little prayer, and pop it in the oven. If it works, you feel like a genius. If it flops, you eat the warm mess anyway because hey, sugar is sugar. My first banana bread was more like banana soup. But I kept trying. Now, my banana bread has a crispy brown sugar crust and just the right hint of cinnamon. It never lasts more than 24 hours in the house.
Food also connects us to our heritage, to each other, to places we’ve never been. I’ve never been to Lebanon, but I’ve stood in my kitchen with a friend whose mum taught me to make the fluffiest tabbouleh, cutting parsley so finely it felt like art. I’ve never been to Vietnam, but I can tell you that a proper bowl of pho is not just a meal, it’s a ritual. There’s something almost sacred about the slow simmered broth, the plate of fresh herbs, the squeeze of lime at the end.
Of course, not every meal needs to be an experience. Some nights you just want toast. And that’s okay. But I think what makes food blogging so interesting isn’t just sharing recipes it’s sharing why the recipe matters. Every family has that “thing” they make. Maybe it’s your grandmother’s lemon cake, or your uncle’s secret barbecue rub, or your own version of instant ramen that somehow hits just right at 2 a.m.
So here’s mine. My go-to feel-good meal: garlic butter spaghetti with a soft-fried egg on top. Nothing fancy. Just spaghetti tossed with olive oil, butter, chili flakes, and way too much garlic. Topped with a jammy egg, some parmesan, and maybe parsley if I’m feeling wild. It takes ten minutes, but it never fails to make me feel better about absolutely everything.
I guess what I’m trying to say is cook, even if you think you’re bad at it. Mess up a recipe, burn the edges, use too much salt. Laugh, start over, and try again. Food isn’t about perfection. It’s about people, stories, and the small sacred moments you create at your own stove.
And if all else fails there’s always tomato soup.