A Kitchen Miracle
How Collecting Plates and Wanting to Repay my Husband Made Me a Self-Proclaimed Master Chef
Cooking was never supposed to be my thing. For as long as I can remember, the kitchen was a place of turmoil, where chaos, self-doubt, and frustration swirled in the air like steam. It was a place that conjured images of thick black smoke and disfigured vegetables and meat; and of vivid feelings of sticky sweat, and hot oil splatters on my arm, legs, chin, and chest. Each sting added to my mental list of why the kitchen and I were never meant to be friends.
To be fair, this aversion wasn’t without reason. I did try to acquaint myself with the nauseating number of ingredients in the cupboard and tame that old, temperamental stove. I attempted, on a few occasions, to create simple dishes which all turned out to be a lost cause: I undercooked a lot of rice and burnt the fried chicken’s skin while the blood kept oozing inside. I broke the yokes of my eggs and managed to cook viands that are either too bland to be worth a second bite or too salty to actually keep you alive. So, I quickly surrendered to the kitchen gods and decided that cooking was something I would never ever be good at. I hung my apron for what I thought was the very last time and never dared to look back.
(Part I)
Ten years have passed and nothing much has changed. I guess I could fry some bacon and some eggs, but those annoying yokes would still often break. And yes, I had to learn how to cook decent-enough rice — that’s just what yourself and society would expect out of a married Asian adult woman that I was. But other than that, I was pretty much the same. I had lived to believe that I’d be damned to touch another pot or pan again.
It wasn’t until the pandemic that I had a change of heart.
Newly out of job, I stumbled into selling vintage plates, cups, and mugs. I’ve always had an affinity for things that were one-of-a-kind. With covid-19 forcing the whole world to shut down and drive away eager tourists, I knew people would yearn for the travels and adventures they used to easily have. I reckoned the only way to relive their joyful journeys, at least at that moment, was through the food they would serve at home and the drinks they’d concoct and sip to the last drop. And so, my humble business came about.
I fell in love with the crockery I’ve collected and curated from vintage markets and surplus shops. The plates in particular were always so colorful, ornate, durable, and wonderfully unfamiliar. From the quiet deviations of a paint stroke to the subtle variances of repeating patterns, I could sense the touch of an artistic, meticulous, yet imperfect craftsman’s hands. It was a welcome change from the insipid dining objects we buy in malls, mass-produced in just a couple of minutes by a conveyor-belted assembly line.
The antique plates told of stories from the distant past. They signified layered cultures, revered traditions, and varying recollection of pivotal times. They came from the places I’ve visited and loved, places I’ve longed to explore, and places I once knew nothing about: Spain, Greece, Egypt, Kenya, and Japan. Italy, Portugal, Turkey, Bali, and Thailand. As I inspected each plate for chips, scratches, and cracks, I found myself wondering about the meals the original owners once had. Were they part of grand celebrations or quiet family dinners? Did they bear witness to laughters in times of prosperity and peace, or to tears and sorrows during wars, crises, and other previous epidemics? Were they served alfresco, getting kissed by the sun rays, in a charming summer day? Or were they placed on top a weathered table in a cold winter’s night, beside a soothing fireplace?
Each piece seemed to carry a part of someone else’s beautiful life. While most of my collections got sold out, a few ones here and there would be left untouched. As I carefully stored the unsold ones away, I began to feel a stirring inside — a call of duty to give these overlooked works of art a second chance instead of letting them gather dust on shelves, wishing for a patron to carelessly overspend and buy one more item. No, the unsold ones were not meant to be forgotten. They deserved to hold meals for someone again.
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I began to dream of serving coq au vin on a plate from France — it’s a dish I’d encountered only because I randomly ordered it at a restaurant once. I imagined cooking a vibrant curry just to watch it perch against the walls of a glazed Moroccan tajine, or the earthy yet elegant stoneware from our very own — the Philippines. I wanted to brew coffee in a pristinely-preserved copper cezve with magnificent traces of patina on the outside, and pour it into a Benjarong cup, a midcentury Ashdale Pottery mug, or the royal bone chinoiserie set I had to bid for stressfully from a live-seller one night.
So back to the kitchen I went. My gathered treasures were seemingly smiling, as if aware of my resolve to honor them with dishes personally prepared. I labored through the smells, the swelter, and the hundred failed attempts. I tried, and failed, and tried and tried again until, finally, a creation emerged — a dish worthy to be held by the heavy, hand-painted terracotta Andalucian platter!
Almost imperceptibly, my relationship with cooking began to change.
I learned to instinctively season. I learned to fry, sous-vide, poach an egg, and bake. I learned how easy it was to make all sorts of pasta and healthy, hearty soups. I learned how half the success of my cooking is by the freshness of the ingredients I use. I started reading about various cuisines, and slowly found the courage to tweak the measurements dictated by others’ recipes. I watched all the interesting culinary shows in Netflix, and then ventured into other platforms to find more of it. In just a short time, I got totally hooked — with no other thing in my mind but to cook and cook and cook.
My vintage crockery rejoiced in usage. My phone was filled with snapshots of every meal I carefully laid out and arranged. As I scrolled down to admire the composition of my tablescapes, I suddenly noticed something else: Each food I created was more ambitious than the one before — each time more complex and more sophisticated. That’s when I knew I’ve finally conquered the test. It took quite a while and it was a hell of a ride but I’m now a self-proclaimed master chef, all thanks to my plates.
(Part II)
And just when you think my story is done, there’s the matter of the kind, loving, and selfless husband of mine. Ever conscientious and hardworking, he takes great care of our household and never asks me to contribute a dime. Even then, he’d willingly wash the dishes, feed our cats, and do just about any other household chore I’d ask of him when I am starting to get tired. Then, when we’re ready to sleep and though I know that he is extremely exhausted, he’d fight to keep awake to give me a full-body massage for as long as he could simultaneously watch Star Trek, Star Wars, or Babylon 5. And just when I thought he could not possibly do more for me, every time he gets an unexpected free time from his business, he’d spend it running errands, doing our groceries, and driving through the infamous Manila traffic just to bring me to work or fetch me from my social responsibilities.
For the longest time, I used to not know how to repay his boundless love and devotion. I used to get frustrated with this dynamic as my past relationships never really taught me how to fully relax and just accept great things. Sometimes, I would foolishly ask him to care for me less so I could be the harder lover for once. He would simply laugh, shake his head, and remind me that always putting me first is his mission in life. But I was not about to accept that I’d be nothing else but a receiver in this precious marriage of ours. The competitive woman in me has got to give it all I got. I had tried searching for ingenious new ways to his heart, but, as cliché as it sounds, the key has always been just through his ever-hungry stomach.
One thing about my husband is he loves to eat big meals and indulge in unhealthy snacks; He is the quintessential American man who prefers convenient, delivered, processed food over a hot dish that requires hard work and so much prep-time. He could not be bothered to measure water or differentiate rosemary from basil. He would eat an unseasoned boiled chicken with some lettuce in a pita wrap, even though he knew putting a bit of salt and pepper in it, and thinly-cut onion perhaps — would have made his gastronomic experience more worthwhile and more pleasant.
My husband was the more important reason I gave cooking another shot and he kept me going by being my safe space, my advocate, my number one fan, and my rock. He swallowed my practice mistakes with such earnest forbearance. He ate hard beans and valiantly chewed through every charred pork and beef. He didn’t once mind that I wasted six big cuts of perversely pricey steak that could have lasted us a week. I had sobbed so much over every displeasing meal I had made for him but all he ever uttered to me was, “You are so amazing.” He’d hug me tight, joke about, and kiss me many times, putting an end to my childish whimpers on a long, defeated, direly hopeless night. He persevered with me until I finally got things right. He was, in fact, my greatest motivation behind this whole culinary journey and my eventual triumph.
While I started this all for myself, I discovered along the way how cooking, in its truest and highest form, is always for someone else. Making delicious food became my ultimate love language — a unique way to show my husband my deepest gratitude, affection, and warmth. My love letters to him are written in shitake-mushroom-vodka-sauce pasta, in molo soup, cordon bleu, chicken adobo, caldereta; signed and sealed by blueberry cheesecake, crinkles, cookies, peppermint brownies, tiramisu, or some classic panna cotta.
My husband’s fuller belly, wider smile, and healthier body were all the validation I need to call myself a master chef. I feel a deep sense of fulfillment watching him savor the food I made. There is something in the way he blurts out a quick sound of satisfaction after every bite, and his constant affirmations about how I’ve “outdone” myself this time, that fills me with so much pride. I’d cook for him forever if I can, not just because he deserves it but because in each meal I prepare, I’m reminded of the happy memories that we share. In the end, the kitchen and I didn’t just make peace — we forged a bond that transformed my life and enriched my marriage.
Two years hence, and the kitchen still teaches me new things. You can still find me making mistakes — overcooking a sauce, underestimating the time for a roast — but now those moments are met with laughter instead of tears. Each misstep just becomes a new story to share over dinner, a giggle with my husband, or a lesson tucked away for the next attempt. I am now defined not by my failures, but by the countless other delicious meals I pulled out of the pot, pan, or oven. Every cooking technique I mastered, every new cuisine I discovered has built a narrative of curiosity, creativity, and resilience.
I am awash with so much gratitude for this newfound passion, that it compels me to take this vow: For as long as my tongue can feel flavors and my hands can make a ladle twirl, I will keep on cooking with an ever brighter flare — for my husband, whose happiness drives me to keep improving; for the vintage plates whose profound beauty moved me to reclaim this space; and for everyone in my life who might need just a little extra care.
