When I was younger, my dad taught me how to cook. He's a genius

In the words of Ellie Bamber, “When I was younger, my dad taught me how to cook. He’s a genius in the kitchen. I went to Vietnam with my parents, and I went on a cooking course with him.” Though these words may seem simple, they hold within them the quiet poetry of inheritance — the passing down of love, memory, and craft from parent to child. It is a reminder that wisdom is not always spoken in grand halls, but often whispered over simmering pots and humble meals. In this remembrance, we see not merely the act of cooking, but the sacred ritual of connection, of generations weaving their stories together through shared creation.

To say that her father taught her to cook is to say that he taught her more than recipes — he taught her attention, patience, and care. For cooking, in its truest sense, is an act of devotion. It is a way of transforming raw things into nourishment, just as love transforms ordinary days into sacred moments. The kitchen, in this light, becomes a temple; the ingredients, offerings; and the hands that prepare them, instruments of affection. The child who learns to cook beside a parent is not only learning flavor, but learning tenderness, the art of giving life to others through one’s own effort.

Ellie Bamber, a daughter of art and performance, recalls not fame or fortune, but this intimate inheritance — a gift of craft and companionship. In her words we sense reverence, not only for her father’s skill, but for the bond it forged between them. The journey to Vietnam, a land whose cuisine sings with balance and vitality, becomes a kind of pilgrimage — a return to simplicity, to authenticity. Together they study the way flavors dance, how heat and care can awaken hidden sweetness. In that shared discovery, we see the ancient truth: that learning alongside a loved one deepens both knowledge and love, for the heart remembers what the mind alone cannot.

This moment between father and daughter calls to mind the traditions of old, when families passed down their wisdom not through books, but through living example. The blacksmith taught his son the forge; the potter taught his daughter the wheel; the philosopher walked with his pupil under olive trees. So too does the cook teach not just how to season a dish, but how to create harmony from diversity — how to bring together what is separate and make it whole. In such acts, we find the roots of civilization itself.

Consider the story of Confucius, who once said that to govern a state, one must first set one’s household in order. And to set the household in order, one must begin with the rituals of daily life — the care with which one eats, speaks, and treats others. Cooking, then, is more than nourishment; it is governance of the heart. It teaches balance, generosity, and timing — lessons that apply as much to life as to food. The father who teaches his child to cook teaches also how to live: to prepare, to wait, to share.

The lesson within Ellie Bamber’s words is this: greatness often begins with gratitude. We rise not by what we invent alone, but by what we inherit and cherish. To honor one’s parents, one must not only remember them but also continue their gifts — in art, in kindness, in skill. Whether in a kitchen or a craft, we become greater by practicing the lessons of love they leave behind.

Therefore, let each of us look upon the ordinary rituals of family as the hidden treasures they are. Cook with your parents, walk with your elders, listen to their stories. The hands that guide yours today will one day fade, but the knowledge and love they impart will live in all that you create. In every meal shared, in every craft learned, you weave yourself into the unbroken chain of humanity.

So remember this, children of the present age: to learn is to honor, and to share is to preserve. When you stir the pot, you stir more than flavor — you stir memory, gratitude, and life itself. As Ellie Bamber teaches through her gentle reflection, the bonds forged in love and learning are eternal, and the simplest moments — a father teaching his daughter to cook — may be the most sacred of all.