For years, I couldn’t boil water without checking a recipe first.
Okay, that’s an exaggeration. But not by much. I’d pull up a pasta sauce recipe and follow it exactly, measuring tablespoons of olive oil like my life depended on it. If the recipe called for a “medium onion” and mine looked slightly large, I’d worry about it. Actually worry.
Cooking felt like a test. Every meal was either pass or fail.
Then one evening, out of pure laziness, I made dinner without looking anything up. And it changed everything.
The night it happened
I was tired. Really tired. The kind of tired where even scrolling through recipes felt like too much effort. But I was also hungry, and there was food in the fridge that needed to be used.
So I just… started.
Heated some olive oil. Threw in what I had—an onion, some garlic, half a fading zucchini. Added leftover rice from two days ago. Cracked an egg on top near the end. Seasoned with whatever looked right.
It wasn’t pretty. But it was good. Actually good.
And there was nobody to tell me I’d done it wrong.
What I was afraid of
I think I treated recipes like protection. As long as I followed the steps, the outcome wasn’t my fault. If it turned out terrible, I could blame the instructions. If it was good, well, the recipe got the credit.
What I was really avoiding was responsibility. Making something entirely mine and having to own the result—good or bad.
Turns out, the stakes are much lower than I made them.
How it works now
I still use recipes sometimes. For baking especially—there’s actual chemistry involved there, and I don’t have the confidence to improvise with flour ratios. But for everyday cooking, something has shifted.
I start with what I have. Not what a recipe tells me to buy. I open the fridge, see what’s there, and work with it. This has led to some creative combinations I never would’ve tried otherwise.
I taste as I go. This sounds obvious, but I used to follow instructions so rigidly that I’d forget to actually taste the food until it was plated. Now I’m tasting every few minutes. Adjusting. Adding what feels missing.
I accept “good enough.” Not every meal needs to be impressive. Most nights, “this fills me up and tastes fine” is the goal. That’s a perfectly valid outcome.
Some things I’ve learned
Salt matters more than anything else. Under-salted food tastes flat, no matter what else you’ve done. Add it gradually, taste often.
Heat is your friend. I used to cook everything on medium because I was scared of burning things. Now I use high heat when I want texture—crispy edges, proper browning.
Acid brightens everything. A squeeze of lemon or a splash of vinegar at the end can wake up a dish that tastes dull. This one tip improved my cooking more than any fancy ingredient.
Fat carries flavor. Butter, olive oil, a bit of cream—these aren’t extras, they’re how flavor actually reaches your taste buds.
The failures
I’m not going to pretend it’s all worked out.
There was the soup that was somehow both bland and too salty. The stir-fry that turned into a sad, watery pile. The time I added way too much cumin and couldn’t finish my own dinner.
But here’s the thing: none of these were catastrophic. I learned something from each one. And nobody was grading me.
What cooking feels like now
It’s relaxing in a way it never used to be.
I put music on. Pour a glass of something. Chop vegetables without rushing. The kitchen smells good, and I’m making something—not following instructions, but actually making something.
Some nights it’s elaborate. Most nights it’s not. Both are fine.
The best part? I actually remember what I’ve cooked now. When you follow a recipe exactly, the dishes blur together. When you improvise, each meal is a little different. It becomes yours.
If you’ve ever felt like cooking is a performance, try this: make one meal without looking anything up. Just use what’s in your kitchen. See what happens. You might surprise yourself.