INTRODUCTION: The Smell from the Kitchen Was the Language of Childhood
In our childhood, there wasn’t a voice calling us home — but there was a smell.
The warm aroma of food from the kitchen.
Sometimes dolma, sometimes dovgha, sometimes the steam of freshly baked lavash...
Every home has a heart — and that heart is the kitchen.
But a kitchen is not made just of stoves and pots.
It is our mother’s cooking that turns it into a heart.
1. The Kitchen Is a Woman’s Heart
When my mother cooked, it felt like she was whispering a prayer.
She didn’t just prepare meals — in every chopped onion, every whisked egg, there was care, love, and prayer.
Each plate placed on the table wasn’t just filled with food — it was filled with a lifetime of effort, tears, and joy.
2. Hand-Chopped Vegetables – A Symphony of Order and Love
Onions chopped by hand, cabbage peeled leaf by leaf, potatoes checked by touch — this was a mother’s unofficial culinary art.
My mother used to say:
“If you want to feed the stomach, cook. If you want to feed the soul, cook with love.”
3. Every Dish Is a Memory of a Season
Spring – fresh herbs, dovgha, and grandma’s dried mint.
In spring, the kitchen smelled “green.” My mother would cook dovgha and crush the mint with her hands. That sourness, the lightness of yogurt — it was the flavor of childhood.
Summer – dolma, eggplants, watermelon, pilaf.
In summer, my mother would make tomato dolma. It smelled so good that neighbors would open their windows and ask:
“Hey girl, what are you cooking?”
Autumn – jams, lavashana, plum compote.
The kitchen smelled of jam. That scent still takes me back to September.
Winter – hot soups, mashed potatoes, baked dishes.
Baked potatoes and chicken in the oven during winter were like a fairytale.
If it snowed outside and that smell was in the house — it meant happiness.
4. The Table — The Rhythm of the Family
The table wasn’t just for food.
When my mother set the table, we would all gather.
Even the quiet ones would speak, and the talkative would listen.
She knew us all:
“This one doesn’t eat bread crust, this one likes dolma without juice, this one wants pickles.”
These silent observations came from love.
5. Traditional Recipes — A Book Written in Memory
My mother had recipes she knew by heart, never written down:
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Juicy meatballs (sulu kufta)
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Layered baklava with thin pastry
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Meat stewed with plums
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Sweet milk rice dish (südlü aş)
These are the unique sounds of every home.
6. Soups Cooked During Illness — The Taste of Compassion
When I was sick, my mother’s chicken soup worked better than any medicine.
Along with the steam of the soup came her breath, her care, her healing.
Simple ingredients — chicken, carrot, salt — and love.
7. Meals Cooked for Guests — The Honor of the Kitchen
When guests were coming, my mother’s excitement was different.
“A guest brings blessings,” she would say.
On those days, the table was richer, the dishes more abundant, the kitchen brighter:
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Pilaf with vegetables
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Fried fish
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Walnut-filled baklava
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Keta (stuffed pastries)
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Village tea and rose jam
8. Lessons Learned in the Kitchen
My mother never said:
“Sit down, I’ll teach you.”
Just standing beside her was enough.
When to add salt?
Which dish needs vinegar?
How to boil potatoes so their skins don’t peel?
These were life lessons taught in the kitchen.
9. Memories Carried by Smells
Every dish brings a memory. For example:
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Smell of yogurt → ayran drunk in the yard during summer
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Smell of onions → meatballs baked in the oven
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Turmeric → fried pilaf cooked by grandma
The kitchen is not just for the stomach — it is where memories are stored.
10. It’s Not My Mother Who Is Silent, It’s the Kitchen
Sometimes, if my mother didn’t cook for a few days, the house would feel silent.
The sizzle of the stove, the clink of pot lids, the sound of stirring — these are the house’s breath.
When my mother isn’t in the kitchen, the home itself seems to miss her.
CONCLUSION: If the Kitchen Is the Heart, Then the Mother Is Its Beat
The meals our mothers cook nourish more than just our bodies — they feed our souls.
Those meals can stop the tears of a child whose stomach is full but heart is empty.
The kitchen is not just a stove, pan, or pot.
It is a mother’s breath, a woman’s love, a family’s warmth.
That’s why we say:
It’s not a kitchen — it’s the heart. Because that’s where love is cooked.