What’s the real difference between following a recipe and actually cooking?
When I’m following a recipe, it’s usually because I’m stepping into something unfamiliar.
Maybe it’s a style of cuisine I haven’t explored yet.
Maybe I’m trying to respect the roots of a dish while still putting my own spin on it.
Or maybe I’m baking—and baking is a different conversation altogether.
Baking is a science.
You move something just a little too far, and the whole thing falls apart.
That’s when a recipe matters.
But when I’m cooking…
That’s something else entirely.
I’m not just trying to make food.
I’m trying to tell a story.
I’m trying to give you a piece of soul.
Something emotional.
Something real.
I want you to feel something when you take that first bite.
I want it to remind you of something you didn’t even realize you missed.
My wife makes sweet potato pie for me.
She didn’t grow up with it.
But being married to me, she learned what it meant—to me.
Back home in Maryland, we used to make two kinds:
- one with vanilla
- one with lemon
My mother would make them, and we’d tear them up without thinking twice.
Now my wife makes hers with a little of both.
Deep dish.
Homemade crust—flaky, tender.
And I’ll take that pie down with no shame.
Sometimes I’ll share with the kids…
if I’m in the right mood. (laughs)
That’s what cooking does.
It carries memory.
It carries feeling.
It carries people.
And that’s where a lot of people struggle.
They follow recipes… but they don’t understand what they’re part of.
They don’t read between the lines.
Because a recipe is just a guideline.
That’s where a lot of people get stuck—they think it’s technical, when most of it is mental. I broke that down in Why Most Cooking Mistakes Aren’t Technical.
It can tell you what to do…
But it can’t teach you:
- awareness
- timing
- intention
Or how to adjust in real time—the same way I approach something like my Rotisserie Chicken Noodle Soup, where you’re constantly reading what’s happening in the pot.
You still need technique.
You still need to understand what’s happening.
Did you toast your spices?
Are you using just the leaves—or did you leave stems in there?
Did you skip a step without understanding what it was doing?
And the most basic question of all:
Is your mise en place ready?
It’s all the small details.
The things most people overlook.
That’s what allows you to move properly in the kitchen.
What chefs pay attention to is different.
We’re watching the energy in the kitchen.
How the team moves.
How timing is lining up.
We’re looking at prep—are the herbs clean? No stems, no shortcuts.
Are the sauces consistent?
Are the cuts clean and intentional?
And we taste.
That ability to taste and adjust only comes with time, which is something I talk about in How Experience Changes the Way You Taste.
Not just for flavor—but for balance.
For nuance.
For acidity.
You don’t stop needing recipes—you just stop depending on them.
You keep them in your back pocket.
As a reference.
As a starting point.
Most chefs build a library over time.
Books from around the world.
Recipes from kitchens they’ve worked in.
Notes from mentors.
I remember the chef I trained under—he was incredibly generous.
He let all of us copy his recipes.
And when I started writing my own menus, I’d bring them to him.
He would help me refine them.
Show me techniques.
Push me to think deeper.
That’s how you grow.
Understanding food takes time.
Study.
Discipline.
A willingness to learn.
As a young cook, I carried a notebook everywhere.
Taking notes every day.
Some chefs I knew would work in other kitchens for free—just to learn.
Different cuisines.
Different techniques.
Different ways of thinking.
And even now…
I’m still learning.
For me, a real chef is someone who can create something out of nothing.
On the fly.
That’s not easy.
That takes experience, awareness, and understanding a lot of variables at once.
Cooking without thinking doesn’t mean you’re not paying attention.
It means you’re confident.
It means you’ve put in enough time…
enough reps…
enough study…
That your instincts take over.
You can create something that not only looks good—
but tastes right.
That’s when you start to design your own style of food.
That’s when you come into your own.
It’s a good feeling.
But even then…
you’re still a student.
Always.
Steady. Controlled. Yours.
