Today I decided that I had a "housekeeping day". The morning began with thoughts about the right food, beautiful presentation, and the perfect dinner. I pulled out all the recipes from my bookmarks, put on an apron, opened the window (well, so that it was French).

On the cutting board - zucchini, carrots, some eggplant, spices and ambitions. Plan: vegetable stew. Everything was going perfectly - until the moment when I decided to "improvise a little."

Added a little sauce. Then more. Then water... And after 10 minutes it was no longer a stew, but something pulsating in the pan, which required either a lid or a banishment ritual.

I started saving it: I added buckwheat - it became too thick. I added water - it became porridge. In the end, I got something between a cream soup and a casserole.

I sat in the kitchen, covered in flour, surrounded by the aroma of spices and chaos. And you know what? I was not upset. It was fun. It was a process. Not ideal, but very much mine. I laughed.

Now I understand why cooking is not about the result. It is about the moment, about freedom, about how you feel in this process.

And next time... I will not follow the recipe again. Because this is the taste of life - when you are not sure what will work out. But you are ready to try.