A Letter of Gratitude to the Women Who Taught Me How to Cook

Photo from Canva Stock

I recently organized my massive collection of cookbooks (If you didn’t know I’m a cookbook collector). I found myself reflecting on where my love for cooking truly began. I couldn’t move forward without honoring the women who taught me how to cook.

Each of them worked full-time jobs, yet still came home to prepare delicious meals from scratch or at least semi-homemade. Like me, they found joy in the kitchen. For me, cooking and baking is therapeutic. Each tablespoon, measuring cup and mixing bowl is filled with ingredients that feel like nourishment for my soul. I try to cook at least five nights a week when I’m at home and it all started with the lessons they passed down.

At the age of six, I spent a summer afternoon in my godmother’s kitchen. She announced that we would be baking bread that day and I can still remember my excitement as I climbed onto a chair beside her. Step by step, she showed me how to measure the flour, proof the yeast, and mix the dough. When it was ready, we covered it and set it near the window, letting the sun’s warmth help it rise. That day, I learned the art of patience in the kitchen. Thank you, Beverly.

A year or two later, I stood in my neighbor’s kitchen as she taught me how to make homemade tortillas from scratch. Just a few simple ingredients, yet the result put any store-bought version to shame. That day, I learn you don’t need a ton of ingredients to make a beautiful meal. Thank you, Sandra.

That same year, my mom gathered my friend Briana and myself in the kitchen to teach us how to make lasagna from scratch. It’s a recipe that has remained a staple in my life to this day. Thank you, Mom.

A few years later, I asked my grandma who we lovingly called Mama Lynn for the secret to her famous mac and cheese. She simply smiled and told me there was no recipe. She just knew it by memory. She would say a handful of this, a dash of this, a can of this. Forget the teaspoons and measuring cups this dish was made with love. To this day, her mac and cheese is still celebrated and savored by members of my family. 

As I’ve tried to recreate it, I’ve learned that the real secret wasn’t in the ingredients but in the intention. When you cook with love, it shows up in every bite. But if you’re frustrated or distracted, the food somehow knows. That lesson from Mama Lynn has stuck with me: cooking is just as much about spirit as it is about skill.

I can also hear the voice of my other grandmother, Anne, calling out, “Jewel, come help me in the kitchen!” During the summers I spent with her, I often stood at her side while she baked a golden pound cake and asked me to help pour on the glaze after it had cooled or prepared a tender pot roast for dinner for the week. Those moments taught me that the kitchen wasn’t just a place to make food it was a place to create memories.

So I want to thank the moms in my life and the mother figures who have always stood by my side. This post is a reflection of gratitude to them.