I was born in C\u0103rpini\u0219, among hills and next to forests that smell of raw green. That is where I first experienced what taste is. Not from books, nor from school, but from the hands of my mother, who cooked with whatever we had.<\/p>\n
Our kitchen was not big, nor equipped to the standards of a self-respecting cook, but I remember the wood stove where the fire never went out completely. It was only left to smoulder. My mother kneaded the bread with slow movements, and the flour rose into the air like a dust of light. When she opened the stove door, I was hit by that warm smell of burnt wood, smoke and bread crust.<\/p>\n
I would often sit on the little stool by the wall. I watched her chop onions finely, without hurrying. She did not say much. She tasted now and then and said only: \u201cIt\u2019s good. But it needs a little more salt.\u201d There, in \u201cthe quiet of my childhood\u201d, I learned something I have never forgotten: that cooking is not about recipes, but about feeling. That you must taste with your soul, not with the spoon.<\/p>\n
I also remember the smell of fresh milk as it boiled and the thick skin rose to the top. Or the smell of saut\u00e9ed onions filling the whole house, a sign that something good was coming. In autumn, it smelled of must and dusty leaves; in winter, of smoke and polenta with fried bacon. When I was outside in the yard and the wind blew from the kitchen, I knew exactly what my mother was cooking. Without seeing it. Just by the smell. That is how I learned the alphabet of taste. With my nose. With my ears. With my heart.<\/p>\n
When I left home, I told myself I wanted to learn \u201cbig\u201d cuisine. I ended up in restaurants in Spain where every gram mattered and every sauce had a precise temperature. I learned a lot. But however good a plate looked, if it lacked that something, it felt empty to me. And then I realised: all I am looking for is that same taste of home. The simple, clean taste that stops you mid-sentence.<\/p>\n
Whatever kitchen I end up in, I put a little of C\u0103rpini\u0219 into the pot. Maybe it is the way I look at ingredients. Maybe it is patience. Maybe it is that quiet from my mother\u2019s kitchen.<\/p>\n
I have kept an almost childlike respect for ingredients. Picking a tomato from the garden, cutting it and smelling it before putting it on the plate \u2014 that is a gesture of gratitude. You do not rush. You do not treat them as if they were things. You let them tell you when they are ready. When I boil a soup, I listen. The sound tells you everything. When I add salt, I do not measure. I feel. Like my mother.<\/p>\n
Sometimes, in the middle of a busy service, when everything is noise and haste, steam rises and suddenly I am a child again. I feel the same warmth on my face. I hear the same spoon striking the pot. It is not nostalgia. It is recognition. It is the memory that defines me and lives in me through smell, through touch, through taste. For me, cooking is not a trade. It is a way of staying connected to those who are no longer here. To places that no longer change.<\/p>\n
Over the years, I have learned that the hardest thing is to keep things simple. To add nothing that is not needed. Not to break the \u201cquiet\u201d of taste. Sometimes, a thread of good oil and a slice of bread are all you need.<\/p>\n
I do not want to impress. I only want the person tasting what I cook to feel something true. To fall silent for a second and have something dear come to mind.[\/vc_column_text][\/vc_column][\/vc_row]\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Some scents never leave me. However far I have travelled and however many kitchens I have known, if the right steam rises, I am back in my mother\u2019s kitchen in C\u0103rpini\u0219. That is where I learned that taste is not about recipes, but about feeling and soul.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":1444,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_analytify_skip_tracking":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[206],"tags":[213,214,209,224,210,220,233,225,222],"class_list":["post-1435","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","category-roots-and-memories","tag-authentic-romanian-cuisine","tag-carpinis","tag-culinary-memories","tag-maramures","tag-mothers-kitchen","tag-philosophy-of-flavour","tag-silviu-atanasie","tag-taste-memory","tag-taste-of-childhood"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/silviuatanasie.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1435","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/silviuatanasie.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/silviuatanasie.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/silviuatanasie.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/silviuatanasie.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1435"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/silviuatanasie.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1435\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1436,"href":"https:\/\/silviuatanasie.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1435\/revisions\/1436"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/silviuatanasie.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1444"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/silviuatanasie.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1435"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/silviuatanasie.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1435"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/silviuatanasie.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1435"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}