As general medical practitioner Louis Parrish understood, the kitchen can be a refuge — a bright corner where the day’s worries soften and simmer. With knife, brush, or whisk in hand, we can chop, baste, and whip away troubles. It works. When a problem shows up, some of us take it straight to the cutting board.

Maybe it’s heritage. Many of us come from long lines of great cooks — aunties and grandparents who seasoned with intuition. The kitchen becomes a family album of flavors and a canvas for everyday creativity.

“The kitchen may not hold the secret of happiness,” Parrish admitted, “but it is for me a… ‘great escape.’” I feel that, too. I rarely make elaborate meals or follow a recipe. I show up for the joy — stirring, tasting, adjusting — and let the moment lead.

Forget the grey days. Banish inertia. Dice, pour, measure. Have fun. Experiment. As philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein urged, “Don’t think, cook!”

I taste widely and borrow ideas. Shamelessly, I try to replicate the magic at home — tweaking to fit my own palate: diced tomatoes in baked mac and cheese; crisp bacon bits in scratch potato soup; fresh spinach or mushrooms in almost everything.

Columnist Harriet Van Horne put it beautifully: “Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon or not at all.” Of course we cook with passion. We make a joyful mess. One glance at a flour-dusted shirt and you can guess tonight’s menu.

There’s a secret ingredient, too — one you won’t find on the shelf. When someone praises the meal, the answer comes easily: it’s our secret ingredient… LOVE.