The smoky scent of frying back bacon mixed with sweet plantain would reach me before I even got out of bed.

I’d wake up in my grandma’s flat already knowing what was coming. Toast. Eggs. Bacon. Plantain. The same breakfast, every time. Her version of an English breakfast, but not quite.

By the time I reached the kitchen, she’d already be plating up. A China plate. A cup of tea. Scrambled eggs slightly orange from ketchup. Toast cut into triangles, always.

It was consistent. Familiar. Done without thinking.

I didn’t know it then, but that kind of repetition teaches you something.

Food was always good where I grew up.

My mum could cook anything. Properly.

She trained in catering, so she had the technical side, but she cooked with Jamaican influence, which meant everything had more depth. More flavour. More intention.

BBQ wings. Mac and cheese baked until golden on top. A proper roux, not rushed. Multiple cheeses because one was never enough. Chicken soup that fixed you when you were ill.

There was no such thing as a bad meal.

Not at home. Not in the schools she worked in. Not in the care homes, the prisons, the places where people are used to food being functional at best.

Her food still carried something. You could taste it.

Then there was my grandad’s house in Wembley.

The door was never locked. You just walked in.

Elaine would be in the kitchen, which was tiny, cooking multiple things at once. Fry fish, oxtail, brown stew chicken. Pots going at the same time. The whole house smelling like food before you even sat down.

If she wasn’t cooking, the food was already done.

You’d serve yourself.

Plate up. Sit at the table. Or wherever there was space. Sometimes on someone’s lap if it was full.

People talking over each other. Laughing. Telling stories. The TV on in the background, not really being watched.

Food wasn’t an event. It was just happening.

All the time.

I never cooked in those kitchens.

Not once.

No one stopped me. I just… didn’t.

The food was always there. Already made. Already handled. The knowledge sat with the adults, mostly the women, and I didn’t think to step into it.

But I was paying attention.

I knew what things tasted like. I recognised ingredients. I understood what a finished dish should look like, even if I didn’t know how to get there yet.

That stayed with me.

When I got to university, that’s when I started cooking.

Not because I’d been taught.

Because I knew what I liked, and I knew what it should taste like.

So I worked backwards.

Chicken, rice, vegetables. Seasoning by hand. No measurements. Garlic, onion, thyme, black pepper. Enough until it looked right.

Fridge first. Let it sit. Then cook.

It wasn’t complicated.

If I got stuck, I’d call my mum or my grandma.

They never gave me measurements either. Just method. Just enough direction to keep moving.

“Put a little of this.”
“Let it cook down.”
“You’ll know when it’s ready.”

And I did.

The kitchen I learned in at university wasn’t like home.

Same surfaces. Same equipment. Completely different relationship to food.

Most people weren’t cooking like that.

Food came from boxes. Or apps. Or the freezer.

Which is fine.

Until you realise some people genuinely don’t know what to do without those things.

One morning I walked into the kitchen and found my housemate standing at the stove holding a tin of baked beans.

Just staring at it.

“There’s no cooking instructions,” he said.

He wasn’t joking.

“I don’t know how to cook these.”

I told him what to do. Open the tin. Put it in a pan. Heat it.

“But how do I know when they’re done?”

“They’re already cooked.”

He stood there stirring slowly, unsure, like something might go wrong.

It was uncomfortable to watch.

Not because it was funny.

Because it wasn’t.

That was the moment it landed properly.

Not everyone grows up around food in a way that makes it make sense.

Not everyone learns without being taught.

Some people arrive at adulthood with no reference point at all.

No instinct. No familiarity. No starting place.

When I unpacked my things at university, my pots, my spices, all of it, it felt like bringing something solid with me.

A piece of home that didn’t depend on where I was.

I could feed myself properly. Without thinking too hard about it.

That’s not a small thing.

I didn’t grow up cooking.

But I grew up close enough to it that when it was my turn, I could step in.

That proximity made the difference.

It still does.