I probably started cooking before I even knew how to spell it.
One of my earliest kitchen memories isn’t sweet or cinematic—it’s chaotic. I must’ve been four or five, playing near my mom’s stove after she’d just fried something. There was still oil in the wajan, and for some brilliant reason, I decided to fry plastik. It exploded. Left a scar on my leg that’s still there, like a permanent tattoo from the kitchen gods saying: “Girl, what were you thinking?”
But that didn’t stop me.
By fifth grade, I was making martabak Indomie like it was a Michelin-starred tasting menu. Plated it all serious, like some tiny culinary queen. I’ve always loved experimenting—pushing flavor boundaries, mixing things that probably weren’t meant to meet, just to see what happens.”
My husband, on the other hand, is a man of food loyalty.
If he likes something, he wants it exactly that way forever. When he says a dish is perfect, he means: “Please don’t mess with my food. I like it the way it is. Don’t be curious. Don’t make it weird. Leave it alone.” But me? I hear perfect and think: “What if I use heavy cream instead of milk? What if I throw in a splash of lemon? What if I swap spaghetti for angel hair because vibes?”
It drives him a little mad.
So mad, in fact, that sometimes on weekends he begs me not to cook. Not because he doesn’t love my food—but because he knows I’ll turn the kitchen into a war zone, get too deep into a new idea, and emerge hours later too tired to do anything else. He’ll be like, “We were supposed to relax.”
This is not a clean, organized cooking blog.
This is a journal of crumbs, burnt things, beautiful failures, and quiet victories.
The Kitchen Diaries is where I come to make a mess—on the stove, and sometimes, on the page. There will be recipes, sure. But also stories. Regret. Love. Grief. Joy. Reflections stirred in sambal. Rage cooled in butter. Things I want to remember, and meals I hope someone else will, too.
Welcome to the messiest corner of my home.
Where the heat is low, the feelings are big, and curiosity usually wins.
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