I get questions as to why I love to cook and what it means to me. Some people, most I think, will say they learned how to cook by their mother’s or grandmothers’ side, family recipes, family traditions all passed down in the heart of the kitchen. That was not the case for me.
I was forced into the kitchen by my mum at an early age to sit at the dining table making hundreds (yes, hundreds) of spring rolls or ripping apart and cleaning bunches and bunches vegetables for dinner that night or some family gathering we were having. My 8 year old self would grudgingly stand at the kitchen counter or sit at the dining room table cursing every spring roll, every little piece of green stuff that got under my nails, thinking how unfair it was that I was standing there, alone, with no music and no TV, while my brother played out in the yard with the neighborhood kids. My mother’s reasoning? Not that it kept me out of trouble (although I’m sure it had something to do with it), but because ‘If you don’t learn how to cook, your husband will beat you’. And she said that with all the seriousness in the world. That would usually be followed with smart arse arguments from me about how we live in Australia , and I will call the cops, and that women don’t get treated like that over here… yada yada yada. She’d just smirk at me and say, ‘we’ll see’.
See we did. My mum had unknowingly instilled in me a love of cooking, and when I was not complaining about the newspaper laid out on the counter to catch all the mess (It's an Asian thing) I actually found comfort in the mindless methodical way the carrots fall away from the mandolin into the bowl with its friends, or how a big pot, filled with water and the right stuff makes for an incredible soul warming meal. The simple fact that I could feed myself with a little oil and an egg was an amazing gift, even if it was given in an unconventional way. But going from feeding me to feeding others was even better. It took me a while to notice a pattern here, that giving and receiving gratitude was really, well, gratifying. I found my calling, a rarity these days.
When I am cooking, I am happy. It feels right. It’s how I show my family, my friends that I love them. Makes me feel like this is what I’m meant to do in life, that teaching, cooking and sharing is how I can share myself with the world. Cliché, but here it is: food is love, it’s communication, it’s comfort – food is life.
Anna xxx
PS: No, my husband does not beat me, nor has he ever or will ever. Let’s just clear that up. And for anyone who complains about that comment, domestic violence is a serious issue and should be dealt with – ladies, get help, please.
PS: No, my husband does not beat me, nor has he ever or will ever. Let’s just clear that up. And for anyone who complains about that comment, domestic violence is a serious issue and should be dealt with – ladies, get help, please.


