Jinny's Cooking Diaries

Stirring spells at 11PM like the kitchen witch I am. There’s a certain kind of hunger that only visits at night—not just in the stomach, but in the soul. And for that, I don’t want discipline. I don’t want structure. I want noodles. Messy, spicy, confused noodles. I boil water like it’s a ritual. Then I grab everything—literally every spice I can see. Turmeric, chili flakes, garlic powder, curry leaves, soy sauce, ketchup, maybe even a splash of vinegar if I’m feeling dramatic. The veggies? Whatever’s still alive in the fridge. Carrots, onions, random leaves, one sad tomato, and an egg that never goes forgotten—into the cauldron they go. I chop like I’m possessed. I stir like I’m summoning a storm. If I had a wooden spoon and a full moon, I’d probably float. I don’t measure. I don’t taste-test. I feel. I keep adding things until my ancestors whisper "that's enough child".  The kitchen smells like rebellion. My eyes are a little teary—not sure if it’s the spice or the 2AM ...

Folding Peace: My Dumpling Journey.... I didn’t grow up eating dumplings. They weren’t a part of my culture or childhood. But somehow, I found myself drawn to them—maybe because they looked like something you make when you want to care slowly. The first time I made them, I had no idea what I was doing. That was my first time struggling with flaur. A complete disaster. The dough stuck to my fingers. The filling leaked. The folds were crooked. But I kept going—pressing, pinching, tucking softness into softness, like I was trying to hold something broken and make it whole again. There’s something meditative about making dumplings. You can’t rush it. You have to sit with it. Touch every piece. Fold with intention. Be present. Sometimes I make them when I need silence. Sometimes when I want to feel useful. Sometimes when I want to remember that I’m capable of making something beautiful with my own hands, even if the world feels messy. I’ve improved since the first time—my folds are neater, ...

Comfort doesn't always come from people. Sometimes it comes from a pan. There’s something about creamy pasta that makes me feel held—even when no one’s around to actually hold me. I don’t make Alfredo pasta when I’m celebrating or energized. I make it when I’m empty. Quiet. Needing something warm and rich to remind me I still deserve softness. It starts with garlic sizzling in butter—just enough to perfume the kitchen with a promise. Then comes the milk or cream, swirling like sleep. I stir slowly. I taste often. I don’t rush. The shells ( conchiglie ) boil while my thoughts spiral, and sometimes I talk to myself while waiting. Not in full sentences, just in small hums and sighs. By the time it’s ready, the sauce clings to everything—no sharp edges, no harshness. Just white, soft, and heavy. Some nights I eat it on the floor. Some nights in bed. I don’t always plate it nicely. Sometimes I eat from the pan with a big spoon, watching videos I won’t remember. But it works. It always w...

  the dessert that ruins me in the sweetest way possible... Once every semester, I do something sacred. I take a walk, not too long, but long enough to pass the engineering faculty—long enough to pretend I’m just out for dessert, and not also secretly glancing at the campus heartthrobs in their dusty jeans and backpacks like they’re part of the meal plan. But let’s be honest. They’re just the appetizer. I’m here for the kithul thalapa with ice cream. It’s a sinful, sticky, stupidly sweet bowl of warm, grainy thalapa swimming in kithul syrup, with a scoop of vanilla ice cream melting on top like it just gave up resisting. And I get drowsy halfway through. Every. Single. Time. The walk there is half the experience. Me and my friend, aimlessly chatting, not even pretending we’re not checking out the engineering guys. We spot one, give each other a look, keep walking. Eyes up, heart soft, sugar cravings sharper than judgment. And then we reach that tiny spot near the edge of engineerin...