Lessons from My Mother's Kitchen (My Father's & My Lola's Kitchen, Too!) Part 8
By Tantya and By Heart
by Eugenia C. Martin
As a child, I thought the real magic of cooking happened over the fire. That was where ingredients transformed into meals. That was where the aromas came from. That was where everyone gathered, waiting for lunch or dinner. But looking back, I realize the real magic happened long before the stove was turned on. It happened at the kitchen sink. It happened on the chopping board. It happened in my mother's hands.
I can still picture her standing in the kitchen wearing one of her familiar floral dusters, quietly preparing a meal. There was nothing dramatic about it. No audience. No applause. Just my mother, a knife, a chopping board, and ingredients waiting to become food. She peeled vegetables carefully, removing only what was necessary. Nothing was wasted. Every garlic, onion, tomato, potato, carrot, and cabbage leaf was treated with care because food was never something to be taken for granted.
She cut vegetables according to the dish she was preparing. Cabbage for nilaga was different from cabbage for pancit. Potatoes for menudo were different from potatoes for puchero. Even then, she understood that details mattered.
At the time, I thought she was simply being particular. Now I know she was teaching me a lesson. Not through words. But through example. One thing that always amazed me was how rarely she used measuring cups or measuring spoons.Everything was done by tantya (estimate). A pinch of salt. A splash of vinegar. A handful of vegetables. A little more water. A little less sugar. And somehow, the food always turned out delicious. As a child, I thought it was magic.
How could she know the exact amount without measuring? How could she tell if something needed more seasoning or a few more minutes on the stove?
Years later, I realized the answer was simple. Experience. She had cooked those dishes so many times that her eyes, hands, nose, and taste buds had become her measuring tools. What looked effortless was actually the result of years of practice. She carried recipes not on paper but in her memory, her hands, and her heart.
When my mother passed away, I discovered something that made me smile and cry at the same time. Most of her recipes had never been written down. Suddenly, I found myself trying to remember. Not only the ingredients.Not only the cooking steps. But everything. The market trips. The vegetables she preferred. The way she selected fish.The dishes she cooked during birthdays, holidays, and ordinary weekdays. I started writing down recipes from memory not because I wanted to become a cook but because I did not want to lose a part of her.
As I wrote, memories came rushing back. I remembered accompanying her to the market. The market then was very different from what we see today. It was not as clean or organized. During the rainy season, the streets were muddy, and we wore boots to keep our feet from sinking into the mud. Yet my mother moved through the market with confidence. She knew which vendor sold the freshest fish. Which vegetables were in season. Which ingredients offered the best value for money. At the time, I thought we were simply buying food.
Today, I realize I was learning lessons about stewardship, budgeting, resourcefulness, and decision-making. The recipes began long before the cooking. They began in the market. They continued in the kitchen. And they ended around a table surrounded by family. Each recipe became more than a list of ingredients and instructions. It became a collection of memories. A record of her wisdom. A reminder of her love. In a way, I was not simply reconstructing recipes. I was preserving a legacy.
Looking back, I realize that the lessons I learned in the kitchen had very little to do with cooking. My mother taught me that ordinary tasks deserve attention. That small things matter. That care can be expressed through everyday actions. Peeling vegetables was not merely preparation. Cutting ingredients was not merely routine. Measuring was not merely a step in a recipe. Each task was an opportunity to DO SOMETHING WELL.
Today, we often celebrate major accomplishments. Awards. Promotions. Degrees. Achievements. But most of life is not lived in those moments. Most of life is lived in ordinary moments. Preparing lessons. Answering emails. Washing dishes. Cooking meals. Caring for people. Showing up every day. My mother understood this instinctively. She approached even the simplest kitchen task with patience, care, and attention. Not because someone was watching. Not because she expected recognition. But because doing something well mattered.
Years later, as an educator, counselor, wife, and mother, I often find myself returning to that lesson. And these days, I sometimes find myself smiling when my husband asks questions while learning to cook. "How much oil did you put?" "How much vinegar?" "How much soy sauce?" Without thinking, I answer, "About two tablespoons." Then I pause and laugh. I never actually measured it. There were no measuring spoons. No measuring cups. Just a quick pour and a glance.
Somewhere along the way, I had learned to cook the same way my mother did. By observation. By experience. By tantya. The very thing that once amazed me as a child had quietly become part of me. I used to wonder how my mother knew the right amount without measuring. Now, I occasionally surprise myself when I somehow know it too. Perhaps that is how wisdom is passed on. Not always through formal lessons. Not always through written instructions. Sometimes it is passed from one generation to another through years of watching, helping, practicing, and remembering. And in those moments, I realize that my mother is still teaching me.
Excellence is not reserved for special occasions. It is practiced daily. One task at a time. One choice at a time. One act of care at a time. Perhaps that is why I still remember those quiet moments in the kitchen. To others, they might have seemed ordinary. To me, they became life lessons. My mother was teaching me that how we do small things eventually shapes how we do big things.
And sometimes, excellence begins with something as simple as peeling a potato.
My mother taught me that greatness is rarely found in dramatic moments. More often, it is found in the quiet discipline of doing ordinary things well.
#LessonsFromMyMothersKitchen #TheKitchenClassroom #EugeniaWrites
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Lessons from My Mother's Kitchen (my Father's & my Lola’s Kitchen, Too!) Part 8 is a reflection series on life, learning, family, and the wisdom hidden in ordinary moments. Sometimes the most important lessons are not found in recipes, but in the people who teach us how to grow. New reflections are published every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday.  |
| Eugenia C. Martin (Ms. Eugene) is a Registered Guidance Counselor, Licensed Professional Teacher, wife, mother, songwriter, gardener, traveler, and home cook. Her life's lessons have come from many classrooms—the school, the counseling room, her parents' kitchen, the family garden, and the backyard shoe-making business where she first learned the values of perseverance, entrepreneurship, and community. Through her writing, she reflects on mental health, parenting, education, relationships, faith, music, gardening, and the journeys that continue to shape her understanding of people and life. |
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