For me, every flavor carries a memory. I grew up in a family where Sundays were sacred — long afternoons unfolding around my grandmothers’ tables. In one of their homes, slow-cooked rooster with pasta would simmer for hours, its rich aroma drifting through every room long before we were called to sit down. In the other kitchen, steaming bowls of yuvarlakia offered a softer kind of comfort, especially on colder days. Different flavors, different rhythms — yet the same quiet language of care. There was always something bubbling on the stove, something warm being passed from hand to hand. At the same time, there was a more conscious understanding of food within our home. My mother, as a food technologist, taught me from an early age to read labels, to understand ingredients, to recognize quality, and to avoid excess — not from fear, but from knowledge. Those Sundays were not only memories; they were a foundation. They shaped the way I understand nourishment — not as restriction or trend, but as generosity, presence, and care. That balance between emotion and awareness would later find its way into my own kitchen.
