It was just another slow afternoon in the office, the kind where time seems to stretch longer than usual, and the clock seemed to be mocking us, each tick a tiny hammer blow to our dwindling productivity. We were just killing time, making small talk. When I asked Lihin, my colleague from marketing, what she used to do before joining our team, she leaned back in her chair and pondered. Then, as if she had thought of the perfect words to say, she said, "I used to produce food."
I blinked, taken aback. "Produce food?" The phrase felt peculiar on my tongue. I was certain she wasn't a farmer or a food manufacturer.
She laughed at my confusion, the sound warm and rich like honey. "My mum is a caterer, and I used to create food awareness through blogging," she clarified.
That made sense, but something about her choice of words—produce food—lingered in my mind like the aftertaste of a complex wine. It wasn't the usual "I used to cook" or "I was a chef." There was something more profound in how she said it, as if food wasn't just something to be made, but something to be created.
My curiosity piqued, I decided to ask the question that had been swirling in my mind, a question that, even then, I knew would find its way into my writing.
"What does food mean to you, Lihin?"
She tilted her head, cupping her tea with both hands. "Food?" she repeated, as if tasting the word. "Well... I've never really thought about it that way. What do you mean exactly?"
To be honest, I wasn't sure either. But I had been toying with the idea of weaving food into a chapter in my book, and something about her response made me want to explore the question further. "It was a question born from my own contemplation, my fascination with the idea that food could be more than just sustenance. It could be art, a form of expression, or a window into the soul, don't you think?"
She considered this, then nodded slowly. We started talking, and the conversation flowed organically. We discussed how food is, in its own way, a form of art. Each dish, a canvas upon which the chef paints their emotions, their experiences, their very essence. And just like any art form, the interpretation is subjective and deeply personal.
My words caught the attention of another team member, who had been pretending not to listen. "Some meals feel like comfort," she offered, swiveling her chair toward us. "Others feel like a celebration. And some..." she paused, her eyes growing distant, "some taste like nostalgia."
"Think about having ice cream on a scorching summer day, What did that taste like?"
"Relief," she said without hesitation. "Like the first deep breath after escaping a crowded room." She smiled, lost in the memory. "It's funny how food can capture a feeling so perfectly."
The conversation shifted, and I started polling my colleagues. Had they ever tasted something that made them wonder what the cook was feeling, what they were thinking as they prepared the meal? Had they ever tasted a dish that carried more than just flavors—one that held a story, a memory or a feeling?
A few heads lifted, intrigued by the question. Conversations stirred around the room. The responses were fascinating. "I'd once had a bowl of soup that tastes like sadness," Another team said quietly. "It was rich, flavorful, but there was this underlying bitterness, like whoever made it had been crying while stirring the pot." He paused, "I don't know how I know that though"
"You can taste emotions in food," Lihin agreed, her professional demeanor softening. "There's no way someone cooking with joy and someone cooking with heartbreak would create the same dish, even with identical ingredients."
We sat with that thought for a moment, letting it settle.
I imagined a woman suffering from her first heartbreak, chopping onions with heavy hands, her mind elsewhere, her tears falling into the pan before she even realized it. Would her dish taste of sorrow? Would it be a little too salty, as if she had lost herself in the motions, adding more than necessary, distracted by grief?
And what of an apathetic woman? One who cooked because she had to, not because she wanted to? Would her food be dull, uninspired—just sustenance and nothing more?
Then there's the woman drowning in love, humming softly to herself as she stirs a pot of stew, tasting it, adjusting the spices, wanting it to be just perfect for the one she loves. Would her meal taste warm, comforting, like home.
The thought consumed me.
"So you believe that even when given the same ingredients, two people can make completely different dishes based on their emotions?" I asked, scanning the faces around me.
"Absolutely," Lihin said. "Because food isn't just about the ingredients—it's about the hands that prepare it, the thoughts that go into it and the energy of the person making it."
Another member nodded. "That's why a home-cooked meal from someone who loves you always tastes better than the same dish from a random restaurant. It carries warmth, intention, care... something that can't be replicated in a restaurant kitchen."
I thought about my mother's cooking—how she never followed recipes but somehow created dishes that tasted like protection, like home. Every attempt I'd made to recreate her meals fell short, missing that invisible ingredient that made them uniquely hers.
"Food is personal, and taste is subjective" I said, voicing the realization that had been forming throughout our conversation. "It's why certain tastes transport us across time and space. It's the reason we crave the flavors of home when we're far away. The cook's emotions become an invisible ingredient, influencing everything from flavor to texture."
Lihin nodded, her eyes bright. "Food is a language," she said. "Sometimes it speaks louder than words. And it's a language that needs no translation"
Later that night, as I made dinner for myself, I caught myself wondering, what emotion would someone taste in my food? Was I cooking with joy, with nostalgia, with longing? Could they taste the weight of my thoughts or the quiet in my heart?
I opened my laptop and began to write, the words flowing as easily as sauce in a pan: "Perhaps the true art of cooking isn't just about flavors. Perhaps food is more than fuel—it's a form of communication, a way to share our experiences, our feelings, our very selves with others. It's like the chef's emotions become another ingredient, an invisible element that permeates the dish, subtly influencing its flavor, its texture, its very essence."
The most memorable meals are the ones seasoned with love, seasoned with life. They're the ones that tell a story, that linger on the tongue and in the heart long after the last bite is gone. I saved the document and smiled, thinking of how a simple afternoon conversation had shifted my perspective so completely. In my mind, I could still hear Lihin's words about producing food, and now I understood. She hadn't just been making meals—she had been creating moments, telling stories, speaking that universal language that needs no translation.
Thank you, Lihin, I thought, for helping me see that every meal is more than just sustenance. It's a story waiting to be tasted.