Travel always leaves something behind. Sometimes it’s obvious – a bag of dried herbs crammed into my suitcase, a jar of something sticky that somehow survived customs. But the souvenirs that matter most aren’t the ones you can unpack. They’re the flavours that linger, the rituals that stick, the small shifts in how you see food. Over the years, I’ve realised this is how travel influences cooking – these journeys have slipped quietly into my kitchen, shaping the way I shop, the way I eat, and the way I cook.
Here Are 8 Ways Travel Influences Cooking, One Plate at a Time.
Every trip seems to begin at a market. The crush of people, the rows of tomatoes so ripe they almost sigh, the paper bags filled with spices I’ll never pronounce correctly but want to bring back by the bucket load. This is one of the clearest examples of how travel influences cooking for me: now, even at my local farm shop, I shop like I’m abroad – loose fruit, vegetables chosen for smell and feel, bread still warm under the paper. It changes the way I cook before I’ve even started.
Learning To Love Simplicity
Having had the opportunity to travel to many European countries, it has – without a shadow of a doubt – rewired me. It’s one of the clearest examples of how travel influences cooking: I used to think good food meant more – more ingredients, more “cheffy” tricks. But sitting at a trattoria table with nothing more than olive oil, tomatoes, and basil has definitely taught me restraint.
At home, I’ve learned to let three perfect ingredients do the work. That burrata and tomato salad I made? A postcard straight from Sicilia, proof that less really is more.
Plating Is A Love Language
The French do this beautifully – even the most ordinary café lunch feels thoughtful because of how it’s set down in front of you. It’s not about fancy garnish, it’s about care.
This is another way travel influences cooking for me. I’ve carried it home: now, I fuss over plates not to impress, but because it changes the way food feels. A scattering of herbs, a drizzle, a bowl instead of a plate – tiny details that say: this was worth the wait. I’m also working on finding my own signature style, pushing myself to perfect new plating techniques each day.
Because after all, we eat with our eyes first.
A Deep Respect For Rituals
Exploring Europe has taught me that eating isn’t just functional – it’s ritual, deeply rooted in culture. Croatia lingers over coffee, stretching a single cup into hours of conversation. Spain turns dinner into an evening of tapas, small plates arriving slowly, each one an excuse to keep talking. And in Italy, aperitivo is sacred – a golden hour ritual that sets the stage for the night ahead.
This is how travel influences cooking and eating at home for me. I slow down. I let a morning coffee become a pause instead of a pit stop. I make oats with frozen raspberries feel like a small ritual. I pour a Friday spritz that marks the end of the week. These little gestures root me in the moment, reminding me that food is never just fuel – it’s culture, connection, and time well spent.
Flavour Pairings I Have Never Tried
Travelling abroad often means encountering flavour pairings I’d never dream up at home — and it’s those surprising plates that linger longest in my memory.
In Sicily, I ate a fennel and blood orange salad: sharp, sweet, aromatic, as if the island itself had been squeezed onto the plate. By the coast, sea urchins paired with citrus tasted like the ocean caught in sunlight. There were oysters dressed in a piquant sauce I couldn’t quite place, but it made the brine sing. And then the boldest of all: octopus and beef carpaccio, citrus and emulsions combined in ways that shouldn’t work, but somehow absolutely did.
This is how travel influences cooking for me back home. These unexpected combinations gave me permission to be braver – to reach for flavours that feel unlikely, to trust instinct over recipe, and to experiment with confidence.
Seasonality At Its Core
Markets abroad are honest. No strawberries in December? Tough luck. No peaches in January? Patience is a virtue. You learn to wait – and the reward is flavour that hums.
This is another way travel influences cooking for me at home. In the UK, I’ve learned to lean into the same rhythm: August means tomatoes, courgettes, and peaches from local farm shops; autumn brings squash and earthy roots; winter is all about brassicas and cabbages at their best. Travel taught me to savour produce when it’s ready, not force it – and to let the seasons decide what lands on my plate.
Cooking for Connection
If there’s one thing travel has shown me, it’s that food isn’t really about the plate – it’s about the people gathered around it. In Spain, dinners stretched long into the night, with tapas arriving slowly, as if the meal itself was an excuse to keep talking. In Italy, no one ever ordered “just for themselves” – dishes were placed in the middle, forks crossing, conversation flowing as freely as the wine. Just like my Baked Rigatoni made for sharing.
I carried that home. My kitchen is less about individual plates now, more about sharing – platters in the centre, salads made to pass, recipes designed to spark conversation as much as appetite. Because the real flavour of a dish isn’t just in how it tastes, but in how it’s shared.
The Confidence To Improvise
Travelling has often meant cooking in strange kitchens – a single gas ring, a battered pan, ingredients grabbed from the nearest shop with no real plan. At first it felt wrong. But with the right mindset, dinner revealed itself: a handful of tomatoes torn over bread, or a squeeze of lemon transforming grilled fish into something unforgettable.
That spirit has followed me home. Now, when the fridge looks bare, I see possibility instead of panic. Leftover veg becomes a traybake, a slightly soft peach finds its way into a salad, and sometimes the best meals are the ones thrown together.
Like the time I found myself carrying the world’s biggest watermelon back from a supermarket abroad – no idea what I’d do with it, but knowing I couldn’t resist. Or the salad where watermelon, feta, quinoa, and a dollop of herby yoghurt cream came together on a whim and ended up looking (and tasting) like pure summer.
This is how travel influences cooking for me: it taught me that recipes are guides, not rules – and that improvisation, with the right ingredients, often leads to the most memorable plates.
Travel has given me recipes, yes – but more than that, it’s given me instincts. To shop better, cook simpler, plate with care, honour rituals, be braver with flavour, lean into the seasons, feed the people I love, and trust myself to make it work into something delicious.
Every dish I cook at home carries a little passport stamp from somewhere I’ve loved – and really, that’s the kind of souvenir no amount of money can buy.
