A little bit of this, a little bit of that

Somewhere in the mountains of Catalonia, Spain, I met a family who made one of the best meals I’ve ever had. The funny thing is, we were complete strangers.

I was hiking when I came across them having a picnic. We started talking. They were curious about where I was from, what I was doing, and why I was traveling. One conversation led to another, and before I knew it, they invited me to their cabin.

Just like that.

A stranger they’d met in the mountains was now standing in their kitchen while they made paella. And to this day, I remember it as some of the best paella I’ve ever eaten.

But what I remember even more is everything that happened around that meal.

I happened to have a little blend of chicken masala spices in my bag. I often carried a few spices with me when I traveled, a little something from home. So while they were making paella, I offered to cook some chicken curry for them.

And suddenly, we were all in the kitchen together.

Someone was chopping onions and tomatoes for my curry. Someone else was tending to the paella. We were laughing, asking questions, and trying to explain things to each other in whatever broken English we could manage.

At one point, someone dipped a spoon into the paella and offered me a taste. A little later, I was doing the same with my curry, asking them to taste it and tell me if the salt was right.

Language was a barrier, sure, but somehow it wasn’t a barrier to connecting.

I don’t remember every conversation we had that day. I remember the laughter. I remember their generosity. And I remember all of us finally sitting down to eat, sharing a little bit of their culture and a little bit of mine.

It was pure joy.

I’ve had several experiences like that while traveling. People who barely knew me welcomed me into their homes, fed me, and treated me like family. Offering to cook something for them always felt like a small way to say thank you. They’d shared their home with a stranger. I could share a little of where I came from.

I was thinking about all this recently while watching a video of a guy cooking an amazing-looking dish. He was talking as he cooked, casually adding ingredients, clearly enjoying every step. It wasn’t just about making something to eat. It was the whole experience.

And it reminded me how much I love cooking.

Especially for other people.

Sometimes I’ll go to a friend’s house and offer to make dinner. Sometimes I’ll invite friends over just so I can cook for them. And because I spend a lot of time outdoors, running, camping, and traveling, I’ve cooked in plenty of places where there isn’t much of a kitchen, or much of anything to work with.

I remember making chicken curry outdoors once with just a handful of spices: coriander, cumin, pepper, chili powder, some tomatoes and onions. Not everything I’d normally use, not even close. But we had chicken, so I figured, why not?

I put together what I had, and everyone loved it.

It reminds me of my mom.

Sometimes I’ll call her and ask how to make something I grew up eating in South India. She’ll start listing the ingredients, and I’ll interrupt her.

“Mom, I don’t have that.”

“Ah, no big deal. Just use this instead.”

Then she’ll mention something else.

“Don’t have that either.”

Again, no big deal.

She always seems to have another way to make it work. I love that about her. There’s no panic about missing an ingredient, no insistence that I go to the store. You work with what you’ve got.

I’ve carried that into my cooking, too. I’ll look through a friend’s spice cabinet, see what’s in the fridge, and figure something out. Most of my friends don’t even know what dish I’m trying to make, so there isn’t much pressure. Sometimes they look at the finished food and ask, “Wait, you made this with what I had in my kitchen?”

That always makes me smile.

But the part I enjoy most might be the process itself.

Pour yourself a glass of whiskey or grab a beer. Take your time. Marinate the chicken, mix the spices, get your hands into it. Heat some oil, throw in mustard seeds, and jump back when a few splutter onto your hand. Those tiny things hurt!

Then the onions, tomatoes, spices. The smell starts filling the kitchen. You watch the oil separate and somehow know when it’s time to add the chicken. Put the lid on, let it cook, then open it and let that aroma hit you.

I’ll take a little curry with a spoon, pour it into my palm, and taste it. Maybe it needs a pinch more salt. Maybe it’s just right.

There’s something meditative about all of it. You’re paying attention to the sounds, the smells, the changes in the pan. You’re not thinking about much else. Except, maybe, the people you’re cooking for, and how much you hope they’ll enjoy it.

That’s one of the ways I like to show people I appreciate them. Not with some grand gesture. Just by taking the time to make them a meal.

And then comes the best part: everyone sitting down together.

Maybe it’s at a dining table in Catalonia. Maybe it’s a picnic table or the ground at a campsite after a long day outdoors. Maybe it’s my own kitchen with friends who came over hungry.

You share stories. Someone asks about a spice they’ve never tasted. Someone goes back for seconds, cleans their plate, or asks if they can take some home. And you sit there smiling, because something you made brought someone a little happiness.

Food is such a simple thing, really. You could be the richest person in the world, and you’re still going to need to eat. But food is more than something that keeps us going.

It’s childhood. Memory. Culture. Tradition. The dishes our mothers made, the tastes we grew up with, and the stories that come out when we sit together around a meal.

That family in Catalonia and I didn’t share a language perfectly. We hadn’t grown up in the same place or with the same food. None of that mattered much by the time we sat down together with paella and chicken curry.

I think that’s why I love cooking so much. Not just the flavors, or the fun of figuring out what to do with whatever ingredients are around. It’s the quiet, almost meditative time spent making something, and the chance to share it with another person.

It doesn’t have to be complicated. It doesn’t have to be perfect. You don’t need a fancy kitchen or every ingredient listed in a recipe.

Sometimes all you need is a little bit of this, a little bit of that, and someone to share it with.

Cook what you love. And every once in a while, cook it for someone else.

You might be surprised how much joy there is in that.