Grounded: Notes From a Hands-On Cook
Some days, the kitchen feels like the only place that makes sense. A space where you actually touch the world instead of scrolling past it. Cooking feels so much better than watching cooking.
Grounded: Notes From a Hands-On Cook
Some days, the kitchen feels like the only place that makes sense. A space where you actually touch the world instead of scrolling past it. Cooking feels so much better than watching cooking. I think this is why I haven’t been posting many social media videos lately. For me, the joy is in the doing—the touching, the smelling, the tasting and the non-aesthetic chaos that never translates well via a screen.
When I do watch cooking videos on social media, there are few things that make me swipe faster than someone wearing black gloves while prepping food in their own kitchen. What’s with that? Unless you’ve got a skin condition that flares up when you touch certain ingredients, why introduce a layer of latex between you and something you are literally about to eat?
Hands are one of the most useful kitchen tools we have. They are built-in thermometers, built-in moisture meters, built-in dough-cohesion testers. I actually enjoy the physicality of cooking. From peeling garlic cloves out of their papery skins to mushing mince with your hands—so much more satisfying than attacking it with a spatula through to rolling balls of cookie dough—no ice cream scoops here, just me and the dough and a vaguely lopsided sense of satisfaction.
Touch is just the beginning. There are many small sensory pleasures that live in the day-to-day rhythms of a kitchen. These are a few that come to mind.
Smell
Spices blooming in hot oil.
That sweet, almost floral smell of lamb cutlets right before they hit a hot pan.
Garden herbs bruised between your fingers.
Dragging your nail across citrus fruit.
The fecundity of ripe fruit.
The sweetness of new season rice.
Cracking open a wheel of Parmigiano Reggiano—one of humanity’s finest achievements.
The irresistible aroma of chocolate cake baking.
Smell is the sense that tends to reach me before anything else does, tugging at memory and my stomach in the same breath. Aromas aren’t just pleasant, they’re a genuine invitation to pay attention. The way spices bloom in oil or herbs release their perfume when bruised feels like the kitchen’s way of whispering, “slow down, you’re here now.” Even the earthy funk of cheese or the sweetness of ripe fruit carries a kind of honesty you can’t fake. Smell anchors me in the moment, reminding me that cooking isn’t theoretical.
Sound
The crunch of toast.
A ragu simmering lazily over low heat, blurble, blurble, blurble
The soft crackle of a sourdough loaf cooling from the oven.
If you lean in close enough, the delicate pop of fine bubbles in a glass of champagne.
That enthusiastic splutter when you pour water into a pan of dumplings.
The hiss as a large-format steak hits a preheated grill plate.
The satisfying thwack when a barista dumps the spent grinds.
Sound is the kitchen’s running commentary. Those small noises—the hiss, the crackle, the blurble—are tiny confirmations that things are progressing as they should. Some sounds are part of the ritual:a kettle reaching boiling point, a toaster popping up its contents and the ding of an oven timer. Some require a more careful listening, such as a frypan running dry. And that’s the thing about cooking. You can’t pause it, rewind it, or recreate it exactly. You catch it as it happens, or you miss it.
Taste
Melting butter and skimming off the foamy bits—those toasted protein bits are a personal weakness.
Kensington Pride mangoes because you can keep your visually perfect R2E2s. All show, no flavour. KP supremacy forever.
Japanese curry blocks—humble, dependable, and truly comforting.
Salted slices of summer tomato on hot buttered toast.
The chewy, crispy corner of lasagne.
A soft peach juicy enough to dribble down your chin.
A finger of cake batter, purely for quality control you understand.
Taste is the final proof that every step leading up to it mattered—the touching, smelling, listening, adjusting. It’s where intention meets reality. The small sips along the way are lessons in balance and instinct. Taste is the most intimate of the senses because you have to take something into your body to fully know it. And in that moment, the whole messy process snaps into meaning.
For all the fancy gadgets and trending techniques, it’s still the simple, sensory things that remind me why I cook. It forces you to be where your feet are. To use your hands. To smell and taste and listen. To be grounded in the most literal, delicious way possible. It’s not about perfection—it’s about being present.
What We Pass On: A Story of Omelettes and Cookie Swaps
Traditions don’t enter into the world fully formed. They start as a good idea at the time. You gather a few people, raise a glass to something worth celebrating and somewhere between the food, the laughter and the decision to do it again next month/year/season, a tradition quietly slips into…
Saltwater Memories and Seafood Suppers
I never used to cook a lot of seafood at home. I didn’t need to; if I wanted a delicious seafood meal, I’d just visit my parents. It took until I was in my forties to really start cooking seafood at home on a regular basis. Pan-frying the odd fillet…