By Neethu Vijay Karthik

London, Jan 8, 2026: I say I’m a decent cook. I am. Or at least that’s what I believe. I’ve been cooking for the past 18 years for me and my friends. And yet there’s an oddly consistent pattern. Whatever I cook is always slightly low on salt. Not tasteless. Just restrained.

People who eat my food usually say, “It’s fine, the salt is enough.” They’re being polite. I know that. My body still doesn’t believe them.

Because in my childhood home, salt was never just seasoning. Salt was among many domestic issues.

My mother cooked because food had to be made. Not because she enjoyed it. Not because she had a choice. There were no experiments, no curiosity, no learning curve. Just meals prepared before the next fight. The salt was often a little extra. Sometimes edible, sometimes not. Enough to be noticed.

My father, short-tempered, misogynistic, violent, didn’t believe in feedback. He believed in escalation.

If the salt was too much, plates flew. If a utensil displeased him, it followed. Sometimes my mother followed.

There was no “next time, just add less salt.” There was shouting. Breaking. Slapping. Bleeding.

So, my child brain did what it does best in unsafe places. It learned rules.

Too much salt is dangerous. Less salt can be fixed. Prevention is survival.

That logic still lives in my hands.

Why My Food Is Always Slightly Underseasoned

As an adult, I cook with a philosophy that sounds reasonable when I say it out loud.

“If it’s less, we can add more. If it’s more, it’s ruined.”

It sounds practical. It’s actually fear pretending to be logic.

I don’t season instinctively. I hesitate. Every pinch feels like a negotiation.

Somewhere inside, my nervous system is still asking, “Will this cause trouble?”

The irony is obvious. No one around me is violent anymore. But the body doesn’t update itself just because time has passed.

Hair Strands and the Myth of Hygiene

Let’s talk about hair.

Women shed. Kitchens exist. Gravity works. Hair strands happen.

I’m not saying it’s hygienic. I’m saying it happens.

In my childhood home, hair in food wasn’t treated like an accident. It was treated like intent. Like negligence. Like something close to poisoning.

My mother had a severe hair fall. Sometimes a strand ended up in the food.

That never led to an “oops.” It led to rage. Violent rage. Followed by slaps, bleeding, and silence.

So, I learned another rule early.

Mistakes are dangerous. Accidents invite consequences.

That lesson didn’t stay in my childhood. It moved into my body.

When Normal Reactions Feel Unfamiliar

Years later, when it happened to me, I didn’t think. I reacted.

Once, my partner found a hair in the food I cooked. I didn’t panic mentally. My body did it for me.

He looked at it and said, “It’s just hair. That’s normal.”

That sentence rearranged something inside me.

Another time, I was feeding him while he was working on something I needed help with. Yes, I ask for help. Yes, I feed people while they work. Yes, I’m mushy in relationships. That’s how I show care.

He pulled a hair from his mouth and said, lightly, almost amused, “I asked you to feed me roti and curry, not hair.”

I froze.

Then he smiled and added, “It’s okay. This happens at my home too. You didn’t do it on purpose.”

I kept apologising. Automatically.

He asked me to stop. Calmly explained how normal it was. How accidents don’t mean intent.

That moment wasn’t dramatic. It was unfamiliar.

Like kindness without consequences wasn’t supposed to exist.

But it does.

What Trauma Actually Leaves You With

Trauma doesn’t just leave memories. It leaves habits.

It teaches you to anticipate danger. To soften yourself before anyone reacts. To underdo things so nothing escalates.

I wasn’t bad at cooking. I was very good at risk management. For years, I thought my cooking flaw meant I lacked confidence.

The truth is simpler.

I cooked exactly the way a child from a violent home would cook.

Quietly.

Carefully.

Always ready to apologize.

Relearning Salt at 35

I’m 35 now. I’ve been cooking for eighteen years. And only recently have I started seasoning properly.

Not because I learned a recipe. But because my body is slowly understanding that nothing terrible will happen if I add a little more. And even if it’s a bit extra, there are solutions.

That no one will shout.

That nothing will be thrown.

That no one will bleed.

Now, when I cook, I pause and ask myself one thing. Is this about taste, or is this about fear?

Sometimes I still stop short.

But now I notice it without blaming myself.

That matters.

The Part No One Mentions

People think healing is loud.

Confrontations. Closure. Big emotional scenes.

Sometimes healing is quiet.

Sometimes it’s adding salt without your chest tightening. Sometimes it’s not apologizing for a hair strand. Sometimes it’s realizing that what you thought was a flaw was once a necessary skill.

And sometimes, after 35 years of existence and 18 years of cooking, you make food that tastes like peace.

With enough salt!