The Night I Learned to Cook by Taste (and Not by Recipe)

I remember standing in a tiny kitchen in Istanbul, completely confused, watching a woman named Fatma fold something into dough like it was the most natural thing in the world. She ran a little gözleme stand near the Grand Bazaar and I had been stopping there every single morning for four days in a row. We didn't share a language, not really, but she spoke enough broken English and I had enough Google Translate courage that we managed. On day four, she just sort of gestured at the dough and then at me. Like, get over here and try.

. . .

I have always been that person who is obsessed with the food of wherever I am. Not just eating it. Understanding it. Istanbul nearly broke me with how good everything was. The simit, the balık ekmek, the Turkish breakfast spreads that went on forever. But it was the gözleme that got me. Thin dough, cheese and herbs, folded and cooked on a griddle until it was golden and crispy. Simple. Perfect.

And then Fatma handed me the dough.

. . .

via GIPHY

There was a gözleme stand and there was a queue of locals and she nodded at the griddle. So I did.

The thing about learning to cook from someone who cooks by instinct is that it completely rewires the way you think about recipes. She didn't care if my edges were perfect. She cared that I was pressing the dough with feeling, not just going through the motions. She'd taste a tiny bit of the filling, tilt her head, add something, taste again. No measuring. Just tuning it like a song.

I ruined the first two. They were lopsided, over-stuffed, slightly burnt on one side. She laughed every single time. I think laughing at a beginner's mistakes is the kindest form of encouragement.

. . .

That experience opened something up in me. I started doing this everywhere I traveled after that. Not formal cooking classes, which I love too, but just watching. Asking. Being a little bold about whether I could help, or try, or just stand close enough to see what was happening.

In Vietnam I watched a woman make pho broth at five in the morning and understood for the first time why the versions back home taste different. It's the charred ginger. The time. The specific configuration of spices that she had clearly been refining for years.

In Morocco I tried to recreate a chermoula from memory and texted my Moroccan friend seventeen times to confirm ingredients. Still didn't get it exactly right. But I got close enough that my sister asked for the recipe, and that felt like a win.

The thing is, these cooking moments are some of my most vivid travel memories. Not the landmarks, not the Instagram spots, but the food. The kitchens. The people who let a confused stranger stand next to them and learn something.

. . .

I've been trying to cook more intentionally since then. Less following recipes like a strict instruction manual and more treating them like suggestions. A starting point. Which is terrifying when you're used to measuring everything, but also kind of freeing?

If you're someone who travels and hasn't started doing this yet, I really think you should. Ask to watch. Ask if you can try. Buy the weird ingredient from the market even if you don't know exactly what to do with it. Cook something that reminds you of a place. Let it be imperfect.

The best meals I've ever made weren't the perfect ones. They were the ones that tasted like a memory.

. . .

The gözleme recipe, by the way? I have tried to make it six times back home. Each time it gets a little closer. I'm still not measuring anything. I don't think that's the point.