Cooking has always been more than just making food. It’s work, yes—sometimes hard, sweaty, bone-deep work—but it’s also memory, love, and something older than words. We cook to remember. We cook to forget. We cook because, even when nothing else makes sense, we still have this: a knife in our hand, a flame on the stove, and the simple, stubborn act of making something that will nourish.

Here are four lessons I’ve learned about the struggle of cooking.

Lesson One: Cooking is an Act of Reflection

Have you ever found yourself cooking for no reason? Just standing there, making something, not even hungry, just… doing it? Yeah. That. That’s not an accident. That’s ancient.

My grandma was an immigrant from the Netherlands—we called her Oma, which is Dutch for “grandma.” After Oma died, I found myself in the kitchen for months studying Dutch recipes. I made smoked split-pea soup (erwtensoep) and Indo-Dutch peanut sauce (satay). I made Dutch apple pie (appeltaart) more times than I can count.

A few weeks ago, on the anniversary of her death, I went to a small Dutch store in Salt Lake City and looked for Oma’s old favorite foods. I had to fight back tears when I found the chocolate sprinkles she used to serve us on toast for breakfast (called hagelslag). I brought the hagelslag home and shared it with my dad, and we talked about Oma while we ate.

Food is a human response to all sorts of trials. You might not be able to fix everything, but at least you can put a plate of food in front of someone and say, “Eat. Just eat.” We can’t bring people back, but we can make their favorite meal. We can’t undo pain, but we can gather around a table. And somehow, that makes it better.

Lesson Two: Cooking is in Your Bones

Have you ever watched an old woman cook? I mean really watched—not just the Pinterest-worthy “wholesome grandma in a flour-dusted apron” version, but the real thing? The aching joints kneading dough. The quiet sigh before lifting a heavy pot. She’s tired, yet she cooks.

My other grandma—Nana—exemplifies this perfectly. Every time we have a big family get together, Nana works exhaustively to cook for everyone. And every time she’s finished, she swears she’ll never do it again.

Here’s the thing, we did the cooking for Thanksgiving once, and Nana was miserable.

Turns out it’s not just the food. It’s the standing in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up. It’s knowing where everything is without looking. It’s the rhythm of it, the sense of purpose. It’s the exhaustion that feels right, because at the end of the day, it means she did something that mattered, no matter how simple it seems.

This is definitely something I took from my Nana: Some people are built to cook. Not because they have to be, but because it’s who they are. When the kitchen fills with voices, with laughter, with the clatter of plates and the bubbling of pots—somewhere deep down, they know they were never just cooking.

This is the sentiment that has sometimes kept me up until past midnight watching a smoker, making sure the meat will come out just right.

Lesson Three: Cooking Takes Blood, Sweat, and Tears

Yes, tears are salty. So is sweat and blood. And so are anchovies. Only one of these things belongs in your soup. However, there’s something to be said about cooking with your blood, sweat and tears.

What do I mean? Let’s look:

Sweat: Cooking is physically demanding. Chefs work with high temperatures, stand for a long time, and constantly move. The exertion often leads to literal sweat, reinforcing the idea that great food requires labor. There's even a theory in food science that the best dishes come from environments where cooks are deeply engaged in the process. This is seen in artisanal cooking, where hands-on techniques (like kneading dough, slow roasting, or hand-chopping ingredients) contribute to superior texture and flavor development.

Tears: Emotional investment in food preparation can lead to better-tasting results because the cook pays more attention to detail, seasoning, and presentation. Research has shown that people perceive food as tasting better when they associate it with effort and personal connection (the "IKEA effect" applied to cooking—people value what they put effort into).

Blood: Okay, hopefully, no one's actually bleeding into their food. But minor kitchen injuries (cuts, burns) are common. I find myself grabbing hot pans all the time because some of the more difficult kitchen work requires resilience. These minor injuries symbolize the extreme dedication required in high-level cooking.

Lesson Four: The Best Food is Born from Scarcity

Beyond the physical toll, some of the most important cooking lessons come from bad circumstances. This isn’t me advocating suffering. However, humans are often at their most innovative when they are brought to their lowest state. We don’t celebrate their suffering, but we do celebrate their ability to overcome.

• Soul food and cajun cuisine—born from slavery, scraps, and survival.
• French peasant cuisine—cassoulet, coq au vin, things that simmer forever because that’s how you turn tough, unwanted cuts into something rich.
• War-time recipes—stretching flour, making soup out of bones, finding a way to turn barely anything into enough.

Scarcity forces creativity. Grief forces connection. Cooking with tears is real, not in a “woe is me” way, but in a you do what you have to do, and sometimes that means cooking through the pain kind of way.

Final Lesson: If You’re Crying While Cooking, You’re Doing It Right

Maybe you’re grieving. Maybe you’re exhausted. Maybe you’re just done with today, and yet, you are here, making food anyway. That is something sacred. In fact, it’s defiant. Take that, bad day! I’m still gonna hand roll this pasta!

So go ahead—stir the soup. It might not fix everything. But it feeds something deeper than hunger.