STOP THINKING, START CHOPPING
“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” I’m sure most of us have heard this quote, but I’ve always wondered—why can’t women follow the same pathway? Growing up in a typical Indian family, food wasn’t just about survival; it was the centerpiece of every celebration, every Sunday, every moment of togetherness. No outing, festival or even random meetup was ever complete without something delicious at its core. I’ve always been a foodie, someone who equated happiness with flavors. But it wasn’t until I came to college that I realized just how much comfort food brought me, or, more accurately, how much I missed it. Dining hall food quickly taught me that the way to my heart shouldn’t be through that particular kitchen. It was bland, repetitive and devoid of the warmth that makes food special. So my friends and I decided to take matters into our own hands, literally.
Our dorm kitchen became our haven. We’d crowd around the counters, pretending to be “Gordon Ramsay” contestants in some imaginary Michelin-star restaurant. Armed with a Pringles box as a rolling pin, wiping tears from our eyes as we chopped onions and laughing through clouds of flour, we somehow managed to create meals that tasted of joy. “Did the potatoes burn?” became our inside joke, echoing through the hallways along with bursts of laughter. Those evenings of chaotic cooking weren’t just about eating better food—they were about making memories that fed our hearts as much as our stomachs.
Now that I live in an apartment, cooking has shifted from a spontaneous dorm adventure to a daily necessity. Meal prep and grocery runs fill my evenings, and carrying heavy grocery bags home has replaced my gym routine (a workout I didn’t sign up for but somehow love). At first, I thought cooking for myself every day would be exhausting. But surprisingly, it’s become one of the most grounding parts of my life. There’s something incredibly peaceful about chopping vegetables after a long day or stirring a simmering pot while music plays softly in the background. The process forces you to slow down, to be present, to take care of yourself in a tangible way. The satisfaction of creating a simple, wholesome meal, one that you made from scratch, is truly unmatched. It’s a quiet kind of magic, a mix of independence and self-love served on a plate.
Planning meals gives me a sense of control in the whirlwind of college life, while spontaneous cooking sessions with friends still bring that same old thrill. Food, I’ve realized, isn’t just fuel; it’s a connection. It connects us to our roots, our loved ones, and even to ourselves. Every dish tells a story, and every meal made with care reminds me that happiness can, in fact, be homemade.