Learning, be it a language of words or flavours, begins in ordinary habits before finding its way into any university classroom. In my context, it emerged through conversations, stories, songs, and even recipes passed down across generations. Food has quietly held our family together, and the kitchen has been our own place where everyday conversations unfold, decisions were negotiated, relationships were nurtured, and memories take shape.

I still carry vivid memories of the meals we cooked at home. Each dish had a story, each routine held meaning, and every small act in our home felt shared. Even now, whenever I prepare a new dish, my mind drifts back to those moments, and food has its own way of bringing my past into the present. My journey from our kitchen garden to the Kathmandu University classroom has, hence, been a continuum of learning; what began in a remote village in Northern Dhading as a means of survival gradually transformed into memory, and from there into interpretation, analysis, and understanding in my present academic life.

These reflections become clearer when I think about the meals that shaped our daily rhythms. Dal, rice, and curry form the heart of my daily diet; yet, behind this apparent simplicity lies a thoughtful and collaborative process. In our family, deciding what to cook used to be a caring practice that brought everyone together; it involved discussion, negotiation, and reflection.

If we had been eating cauliflower and potato curry for several days, even children could push for a change, drawing on what they had already eaten and enjoyed.

One might suggest cabbage and green beans instead. Slowly, a decision would emerge, shaped by everyone’s preferences and past experiences. Looking back, these everyday choices reflected a way of thinking, of weighing options, considering evidence, and reaching a shared conclusion. This way of thinking became even more visible when I moved to Kathmandu after completing my high school education.

Living away from home meant trying newer recipes for myself. My early experience in a hospitality setting in the capital city deepened this process. Something as basic as making an omelette, for instance, became a gradual journey of trial, error, careful corrections, and feedback. It took me almost three months to master it professionally, from selecting good eggs to cracking them properly, whisking them to the right texture, balancing the yolk and egg white, and deciding how much oil to use.

Then came the challenge of regulating the temperature and learning to cook it slowly, without burning it, until it reached the desired colour and consistency. What seemed like a simple task was, in reality, a process of observation, adjustment, and learning.

Over time, I began to realise that these usual experiences were closely connected to my academic journey; such activities were preparing me for new forms of research and deeper understandings in any given subject. The kitchen had already taught me how to observe carefully, compare outcomes, and reflect on results.

Food, however, is far more than a matter of individual sustenance; it influences how people move, connect, and understand who they are. Even within Nepal, people have migrated in search of better food and resources. Many families moved from the hills to the fertile plain land, hoping for better access to rice, which gradually became a sign of economic stability. I remember, as a child, how rice could divide people in my village; some could afford it every day, while for others it was reserved for special occasions.

Human connection to food travels with people. During my travels to cities like New York, London, Paris, Perth, and Sydney, I met members of the Nepali community and saw how they carried their food, utensils, and traditions with them, keeping a sense of home alive wherever they went. Through small restaurants and home kitchens, they share dishes like momo and dal-bhat-tarkari, keeping their identity alive while also passing it on to their children and sharing it with guests, neighbours, and new communities around them.

Even now, I contemplate that most of the enduring forms of my thinking began from the simplicity of our kitchen garden, where life, learning, and inquiry quietly met. Through food, I learned to observe, to choose, to adapt, and to remember. My own culinary journey during those formative days in Kathmandu suggests every quiet attention I gave to small things. What felt like ordinary routines were quietly shaping how I approached knowledge. Academic research that I encountered later in life is not something entirely new; it had always been there, growing through everyday practices, eventually guiding me toward becoming an educator and, now, an author.

Simple moments like cracking an egg, deciding on a family meal, or sharing food across a dining table carry a quiet rhythm of repetition and reflection. Even the most ordinary kitchen mise en place becomes a gentle space to grow curiosity and practice our patience. These ordinary practices have taught me that knowledge is closely connected to life’s events and experiences, slowly accumulating meaning in our lived world.

This is also why I encourage my students to be attentive in their use of words, just as they are with ingredients, and to treat learning as an opportunity to create with care. Whether in the classroom or in the kitchen, the art lies in how thoughtfully we notice, choose, and harmonise our creativity because both ultimately depend on attention, balance, and imagination, as in the customary culinary craft of Nepali homes.