My brother is in town visiting this week, and he’s making dinner tonight. He went to the store for two ingredients because the recipe called for them and I didn’t have them.

Two!

Actually… good for him. Truly. I’m glad he’s cooking.

But it made me laugh because somewhere along the way I became firmly, deeply, stubbornly an intuitive cook.

Not because I’m fancy.

Mostly because following recipes used to make me want to give up.

I’ve come a long way since my 20’s, where Taco Bell cravings boxes somehow felt like a reasonable food group. Lunch was usually peanut butter and jelly. Dinner was whatever required the least effort and the fewest dishes.

Even when I started farming, convenience still won more often than not.

I lived in a city and commuted to the first farm I worked on, so after a long day I ate out for dinner more than I’d like to admit. Cooking felt hard. Dishes felt hard. Dinner felt like one more thing to figure out after an already long day.

I’d start a recipe, realize I was missing one ingredient, and suddenly I had a choice: go to the store or abandon ship.

And if I was already going to the store…

Well.

Might as well just grab food and save myself the trouble.

The thing is, I didn’t really learn to cook growing up in a way that translated to everyday life.

I learned to boil water. I learned to follow the recipe on the back of a box. I liked baking, so I taught myself that—carefully following recipes and trusting the directions more than myself.

But I never really learned how to feed myself.

I didn’t learn pantry stocking. I didn’t learn substitutions. I didn’t learn flavor combinations or how to recover when something tasted off. I didn’t really learn how to work with fresh ingredients. I didn’t know what to make when there wasn’t a recipe telling me exactly what to do.

And to be clear—this isn’t a complaint about how I was raised. We were a canned vegetables and Hamburger Helper kind of household, and I was always fed, which is indeed the most important part. 

But I never quite learned how to stand in front of a fridge and think: I can make dinner from this.

Cooking was the special occasion. Eating out was the norm.

Then I moved to Pennsylvania.

Suddenly takeout wasn’t convenient anymore. I lived on the farm and there wasn’t much nearby, and after farming all day, figuring out dinner stopped being optional.

Around that same time, I met people who cooked differently.

Subarna—a chef working on the farm during COVID—cooked in a way that felt almost magical to me. Less measuring. More tasting. More intuition.

And then there’s Adam, who is genuinely a wonderful cook and somehow manages to make food feel both thoughtful and relaxed.

I realized somewhere along the way that good cooks weren’t necessarily following rules better than me.

They were just… less afraid.

Less afraid to substitute.

Less afraid to taste as they went.

Less afraid to mess something up.

And honestly? Most meals are pretty forgiving. Especially when you’re starting with really good ingredients.

Maybe it won’t be perfect—but a good tomato is still a good tomato.

Fresh ingredients do a lot of the heavy lifting.

Now I’d put myself firmly in the “wing it” category.

Even baking—which feels borderline rebellious to admit—I struggle to follow recipes exactly anymore. I pay more attention to consistency, taste, and what I personally prefer than whether I’ve followed a recipe gram for gram.

Recipes have become suggestions.

Because somewhere along the way, I stopped trying to cook perfectly and started prioritizing really good ingredients.

Turns out that solves a surprising number of problems.

One thing I’ve learned farming is that people often think vegetables are the intimidating part.

But I don’t think that’s usually true.

I think confidence is the intimidating part.

What do I make with this?

What if I mess it up?

What if I waste it?

I get that more than you’d think.

Because for a long time, cooking felt like something other people knew how to do.

But somewhere along the way, I realized most good meals aren’t built on perfection.

They’re built on repetition.

On tasting as you go.

On making enough questionable dinners that eventually you stop being scared of making a bad one.

And maybe most importantly: starting with ingredients that actually taste good.

Good lettuce wants very little from you.

A ripe tomato is already halfway there.

Fresh food is surprisingly forgiving.

So if you’re staring into your CSA share—or the back of your fridge—wondering what on earth to make, maybe this is your reminder:

You probably don’t need the exact recipe.

You definitely don’t need to get it right the first time.

Dinner counts even when it’s a little weird.

Start with good ingredients.

Trust your taste buds.

And wing it a little.