The kitchen is a place where many have found opportunities for expression and experimentation. And there truly is something beautiful about bold dashes of spice, the homey smell of baked bread, and the vibrant colors of fresh fruits and vegetables. It takes a true artist to capture and appreciate such qualities in the kitchen.

The thing is, I’m just not one of them.

I can make you a PB&J sandwich anytime you’d like. If frozen food appeals to your taste buds, I’ve got you covered. But somehow, aside from the random bursts of spontaneous cooking around the holidays, I really don’t know much about the art of cooking. I attribute this to my mother and grandmother cooking practically all of the meals in my home since I was a child. But I also attribute it to a misconception I have about cooking: that everything must turn out perfectly. That recipes should be measured exactly according to the book, not one grain of rice or one drop of water more than what is prescribed. And if the end result doesn’t look like the picture in the Martha Stewart cookbook, something obviously went terribly wrong.

Indian cooking, I find, is the complete opposite. I sometimes watch my mother in awe as she adds — well, more like dumps — chili powder with ease and confidence in all her dishes, which I swear get better with each attempt. In my experience, it's less like a prescription and more like a this-will-probably-hopefully-maybe-turn-out-delicious kind of experience.

This week, as break has been drawing to a close, I found myself wandering into the kitchen looking for something to do. My mother, standing with her back to me and her front to the pan of spices, coconut oil, and chilies before her, turned to me every now and then to crack a joke or tell me a story from her days in East Africa, where she and my father spent most of their formative years.

I experienced a connection with my culture that perhaps I’d been missing while at school. There wasn’t just a sense of taste when we cooked, but also a sense of close friendship I felt with my mother as she asked me to sample her dishes, each taste bringing up a new story or old memory. And while my time in the kitchen started with the simple task of emptying the dishwasher, other tasks piled up and suddenly, I was mixing flour, adding pinches of salt, and drizzling olive oil abundantly into a bowl — without a second thought about measurements or recipes. And when the bread turned out too salty and half-baked in the middle, I allowed myself to not care.

There’s a confidence that arises when you learn to break free of the rules in cooking and I’m sure, in life as well. I see it as an understanding that while recipes give you the perfect soufflés and rules give you the perfect results, the unknown path gives you imperfections… and unforgettable adventures.