Before I moved to Cyprus in 2006, the kitchen was something I passed through, not a place I belonged. Cooking was foreign—intimidating, even. I remember my first attempt: rice that clung together in despair, eggs that somehow tasted like regret. I called my Ammu in tears, defeated by dishes I had watched her make with such ease back home in Dhaka. Her voice was steady, reassuring. Mine cracked under the weight of homesickness and a ruined dinner.

Those early months were filled with small disasters. Blisters from oil splatter, pots abandoned on high heat, ingredients that refused to behave. But something shifted in the repetition. The kitchen, once an adversary, became a space I began to understand. Cyprus, in its quiet way, taught me how to hold a knife, how to listen to onions as they softened in olive oil, how to feel when a stew had said enough.

In the cavernous kitchen of the university, where stainless steel reflected fluorescent light and the scent of garlic lingered long after dinner, I met Christos. He wasn’t a chef, not formally. But he had a calm confidence I envied. He never raised his voice, never rushed the pan. I watched, learned, imitated. And somewhere in the rhythm of chopping, stirring, tasting—I began to cook.

Now, it’s something I do without thinking. Meals for myself, meals for friends, meals that are more about presence than performance. Most of them turn out well. Some don’t. But the difference, I’ve come to understand, isn’t in the recipe—it’s in whether or not I’ve brought myself fully to the act.

Because food remembers. It knows when your heart wasn’t in it. And sometimes, the smallest bite can carry the deepest feeling.

I cook now not just to eat, but to connect—to time, to memory, to care. It’s never just about the taste. It’s about what lingers after the dishes have been cleared.