I have this strange tradition: every Sunday evening, I cook something ridiculously garlicky. 🧄 Like, absurdly intense. My kitchen smells like a street food market, my hoodie absorbs the scent like a sponge, and my neighbors are probably considering moving. But I love it. There's just something so comforting about roasted garlic and potatoes sizzling in the oven. 🏡
I’ll be honest — I used to find cooking stressful. All these “simple” recipes online that somehow require saffron threads, twelve pans, and a culinary degree. No thanks. I work, clean, do a million little things — I don’t need a recipe that feels like a test. 😂
Then I decided to simplify. I stopped trying to cook like I’m auditioning for a cooking show and started cooking like… someone who wants warmth on a plate. I’ve learned to love the smell of butter melting, onions softening, and garlic roasting until it turns golden. Those are the smells of a lived-in kitchen, not a perfect one.
Tonight I made roasted potatoes with way too much garlic, pan-fried something that might’ve been a little overcooked (let’s call it crispy, not burnt 😉), and threw together a salad that was mostly whatever I had left in the fridge. And it was perfect — not because it was fancy, but because it felt real.
So yes, my place smells like garlic. My hoodie does too. But somehow, that makes me feel grounded. Like I’m home. ❤️