My mother moved through the kitchen like poetry in motion. She didn’t just cook; she crafted comfort, pouring love into every meal. I watched her work with quiet concentration, completely absorbed, her hands moving with a rhythm only she knew. I ate her food with gratitude, never once questioning how it all came together. There were no measurements, no recipes—just intuition and heart. Her mustard saag could dissolve the hardest of days, and her lentil stew was was like a hug in a bowl, nourishing far beyond the body. Even now, when life feels heavy, I close my eyes and feel her love enveloping me, soothing my soul like it always has.
When I moved halfway across the world, the kitchen suddenly became my territory—a territory I had no map for. I called home often, desperate to recreate her dishes. “How much garam masala did you use?” I’d ask. Her answer was always infuriatingly simple: “Just enough.”
At first, I tried to mimic her. I measured everything meticulously, convinced that if I followed her steps precisely, the result would be magic. But my chicken curry was always too bland, my cauliflower always disappeared in my mixed veggie dish. Eventually, I realized that her secret ingredient wasn’t precision. It was intuition.
And so, I let go of the measuring cups and started listening. To the sizzle of onions meeting hot oil, to the gentle bubbling of a simmering pot, to the whisper of spices blooming. Cooking became less about replication and more about presence. It became my meditation.
Finding My Rhythm, One Mistake at a Time
My journey with cooking has been a long dance of experimentation, mistakes, and unexpected discoveries. I’ve burned more onions than I care to admit. I’ve mistakenly added cayenne instead of paprika. I’ve over-salted, under-spiced, over-cooked and under-cooked.
Every mistake taught me something. I learned that there is such a thing as too much black pepper. I also learned that laughter is the best remedy for a failed dish—and that a good squeeze of lime can rescue almost anything.
I began to trust my instincts, to let my hands lead the way, and to play with flavors without fear. Cooking became a conversation, a relationship of trust. The vegetables, the spices, the grains—they all had their own voices, and when I stopped trying to force them to be something they weren’t, they began to sing.
Cooking as a Journey of Stories and Connection
Each meal I make carries a story. And those stories are woven with flavors from my travels. In Morocco, I learned the power of patience, watching tagines simmer slowly, their spices deepening over time. In Mongolia, I discovered that simplicity is an art form, sharing humble meals in a yurt, where warmth and connection were the main ingredients. In New Zealand, I tasted beetroot relish so vibrant it felt like eating sunshine.
I carry these stories with me, tucked into jars of spices I’ve collected along the way. A jar of ras el hanout from a tiny shop in Marrakech. Precious strands of saffron from the floating market of Srinagar. Sweet paprika from a village market in Zanzibar. Each one is a memory, a whisper of distant lands. And when I cook, I weave those stories together, creating meals that are a journey all their own.
Cooking as Meditation
Cooking, for me, is meditation. It is mindfulness in motion. It is a conversation between my hands, my heart, and the ingredients. Cooking teaches me to be mindful of everything—the colors of the vegetables, vibrant and alive; the textures beneath my fingers; the sounds of chopping, sizzling, bubbling. It teaches me to notice the stories hidden within each ingredient. The carrots, grown by hands that tended to the soil. The cumin seeds, harvested under the sun of a faraway land. The saffron, painstakingly picked, thread by golden thread.
Food connects us. It carries stories, histories, memories. When I cook, I feel connected to the world, to my mother, to all the hands that have fed others before mine. I feel a sense of belonging, of continuity, of humanity.
Cooking for TrailBliss: Nourishment from the Heart
This love of flavors and stories led me to cook for TrailBliss retreats. Cooking for others became an extension of my journey—a way of connecting, of giving, of nourishing not just the body but the soul.
I serve Kashmiri kahwa tea—a fragrant blend of saffron, cardamom, and almonds during the opening circle. It’s an invitation to be present, to taste the moment fully. It’s my way of saying, You’ve arrived. Be here. Taste this.
The meals that follow are created with the same intention. Lentil soup simmered slowly, its warmth curling through the air. Veggie burgers bursting with roasted vegetables, piled high with fresh greens. Buddha bowls layered with grains, avocado, and roasted squash. A pot of tofu chili, smoky and rich, warming both body and spirit.
I cook by feel, by instinct, by curiosity. I experiment constantly, guided less by recipes and more by intuition. A little more salt, a pinch of this, a handful of that. And every time, I taste, adjust, taste again.
The most rewarding moment comes when I watch the women gather around the table, leaning in, sharing conversation and laughter. There’s a moment—a breath, a pause—when the room quiets, and I know they are nourished, not just in body but in spirit.
An Invitation to Mindful Cooking
I deeply believe that cooking is not just about feeding the body but about nourishing the soul. It is about presence, about intention, about love. It is about tasting the moment fully, about being aware of the journey that each ingredient has taken, about honoring the hands that grew, harvested, and transported the food to my kitchen. And I believe it is something we can all bring into our kitchens, no matter how simple or elaborate the meal.
So, the next time you cook, I invite you to try it as a meditation. Engage all your senses. Notice the colors, the textures, the sounds, the scents. Let yourself get lost in the rhythm, in the movement, in the moment. And above all, infuse your food with loving intention.
As Khalil Gibran beautifully wrote, “Work is love made visible.” And cooking, in its simplest form, is exactly that.
Whether you’re making a simple bowl of soup or a feast for friends, know that your presence matters. Your love matters. And the food you create is an offering, a gift, a gesture of care.
May your kitchen be a place of joy. May your meals be a source of connection. And may you always find nourishment—in cooking, in eating, and in sharing.
Bon appétit, and may you savor each moment.
Dedicated to My Mother - This is for you, Ma—my first teacher in the art of nurturing through food. Your legacy lives on in every meal I create, in every heart I hope to nourish. Thank you for showing me that cooking is love made visible.
Special Thanks to Nidhi Vaid, who planted the seed for this blog post—your encouragement gave these words life. Thank you for the nudge and the inspiration.