A Kitchen Witch: A Journey

You might be curious about what a kitchen witch is, or perhaps you already know because you might be one yourself. The term "kitchen witch" evokes a sense of magic and creativity, particularly in the realm of culinary arts. I grew up in a family where the kitchen was not just a place for cooking; it was the heart of the home, a sanctuary where love and nourishment intertwined. My dad was an amazing cook and baker, known for his ability to whip up delicious meals that brought everyone together. My mom was also a fantastic cook, her culinary skills enhancing our family gatherings. Both sides of my family had a unique approach to cooking; they loved taking a traditional recipe and making it their own. Sometimes these culinary experiments worked out beautifully, resulting in delightful dishes that became family favorites, while other times, the results were less than perfect, leading to some amusing kitchen mishaps. However, regardless of the outcome, the food was usually still tasty, even if it didn’t look as appealing as one might hope.

Growing up in a family that revolved around food—from growing it in our garden to cooking it in our kitchen—I learned early on how to tell if something had enough salt or flavor just by the smell wafting through the air. The kitchen was a sensory experience, filled with vibrant colors, enticing aromas, and the sounds of sizzling pans and bubbling pots. I loved waking up on Sunday mornings to my dad whistling a cheerful tune in the kitchen, the radio playing softly in the background, and the mouthwatering smell of homemade pancakes filling the house. My mom would be right there with him, collaborating in the kitchen, making sausages, bacon, or eggs, all while sharing stories and laughter. This was home; this was comfort for the chubby little girl who would soon embark on her complicated journey and battle with food and body image.

Food itself has never been my battle; it was always more about the relationship I had with it. My struggle lay in the fact that I was not diagnosed with Insulin Resistance until I was 26 years old. During my formative years, I spent a lot of time hearing everyone’s “helpful” tips on how to lose weight, often accompanied by dire warnings that I would die young, never get married, and that I was so pretty if only I could just lose a few pounds. People often mean well when they say these things, but their good intentions can cut deep and leave lasting emotional scars. The words spoken to me, though perhaps intended to motivate, often felt like a weight I had to carry, compounding my struggles with self-esteem and body image.

Being an only child, I developed a stubborn streak early on, and while their words hurt, I stood up for myself in the only way I knew how. Whatever they suggested, I did the opposite, almost as a form of rebellion against the unsolicited advice. Just to clarify, when I say “THEY,” I don’t mean my parents. In fact, my poor mom often got scolded like a child herself for allowing me to eat or drink things that others thought I shouldn’t. They made her feel small and insignificant, claiming they would have done better if given the chance, not realizing that I had and still have a metabolic disorder, which meant many of their “helpful” suggestions simply wouldn’t work for me.

Throughout my life, I battled with depression, an eating disorder, anger, and anxiety, to name just a few of the challenges I faced. I still wrestle with anxiety, anger, and depression, but for different reasons that trace back to my childhood experiences and the pressure I felt to conform to societal standards. When I was 26, newly married and filled with hope for the future, I got pregnant very quickly. Unfortunately, the pregnancy didn’t go to term, and that heartbreaking experience became a pivotal moment in my life. It was during this challenging time that I finally discovered I had PCOS (Polycystic Ovary Syndrome) along with Insulin Resistance. This diagnosis helped me understand my body better and the struggles I had faced for so long, as it provided a context for my experiences and a path forward in managing my health.

Over the years, I found immense joy in cooking for my friends, often asking them for their honest feedback. I would eagerly inquire about what could be improved or changed in my dishes. The replies were usually positive, often consisting of nothing but praise, yet my own inner critic would not allow me to rest on my laurels. I felt a constant urge to refine my culinary creations, to elevate them to new heights. This desire for improvement became a driving force in my kitchen adventures. Then, in 2020, my life took an unexpected turn. After enduring years of debilitating pain and numerous hospital visits, during which no one could provide a clear diagnosis, I was finally diagnosed with Fibromyalgia, disc degeneration, osteoarthritis, and a myriad of other health issues. This revelation was both a relief and a burden, as I grappled with the reality of my conditions. Just a month after I officially took leave from my job, the world was thrown into chaos as Covid-19 swept across the globe, bringing everything to a standstill.

During the initial year of my leave, coinciding with the lockdowns and isolation brought on by the pandemic, I dedicated myself to focusing on my well-being and embarking on a healing journey that continues to this day. I spent countless hours reflecting on my life, my health, and what truly mattered to me. As the world began to slowly awaken from its slumber, I found myself engaging in deep conversations with my mother about her family history, particularly stories about my grandmother and the rich culinary traditions that had been passed down through generations. This exploration into my roots became a vital part of my healing process, as I sought to understand the connection between food, family, and my own health. I began to pay close attention to how different foods affected my body—what increased my pain and what brought me relief. This introspection led me down a profound path of reconnecting with my ancestors and their culinary legacies.

My maternal grandmother was a passionate baker, known for her love of making bread. Although I had never attempted to bake bread myself, I felt an undeniable urge to rise to the challenge. However, due to my physical limitations, I found that I could not knead or mix the dough by hand as one traditionally would. In this new reality, my trusty stand mixer became my best ally in the kitchen. As I started to experiment with bread-making, I discovered a newfound appreciation for the tactile experience of working with soft, squishy dough. The act of kneading, even with the help of a machine, became a therapeutic ritual for me. More importantly, I found immense joy in sharing the end results with family and friends. Witnessing their delight as they took their first bites of freshly baked bread filled my heart with a sense of purpose and fulfillment that I had long been missing. This was not just about baking; it was about creating connections through food, nurturing those I loved, and fostering a sense of community around the table.

As I delved deeper into my culinary explorations, I became increasingly conscious of the ingredients I was using. I began to scrutinize every component that went into my meals, determined to understand what I was feeding not only myself but also my family. This newfound awareness led me down the path of sourdough baking, where I learned to craft my own sauces and soups using simple, local, and organic ingredients. I adopted a personal mantra: if I can’t pronounce it, it has no place in my body or in the meals I prepare for my family. My sourdough-making process transformed into a sacred ritual, a practice that provided me with a sense of stability and comfort amidst the chaos of life. Through this ritual, I began to heal the little girl within me who always felt like she could do no right, reclaiming her self-worth and creativity through the act of cooking. I reminisced about the joyful moments spent in the kitchen, trying out new recipes, and the laughter shared with the women in my family as we discussed everything from the mundane to the profound, solving, at least in our minds, the world’s problems over pots of simmering stew.

My journey is one that will forever be ongoing, filled with discoveries, challenges, and moments of joy that I will carry with me always. I have come to realize that embracing the role of a Kitchen Witch is not merely a hobby or interest; it is a deep-seated aspect of my identity, something that flows through my veins and connects me to my heritage. This culinary path has become a source of empowerment and healing, allowing me to honor my past while nurturing my present and future. Each loaf of bread, every meal shared, is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the enduring power of food to heal and connect us.