How to Build a Spice Rack That Feels Like Home

There’s a memory I carry with me like a tiny jar of something precious, tucked on the highest shelf—faded with time but never forgotten.

My dad loved to cook.

Not just the follow-the-recipe kind of cooking, but the playful, curiosity-driven kind. The kind that had our kitchen smelling like five different countries in a single week. He collected recipes the way others collected stamps—clippings from Reader’s Digest, handwritten scribbles from friends, old newspaper cutouts, all lovingly stashed in a shoe box he kept above the fridge like it was a treasure chest.

One of my favourites? His Nasi Goreng—an Indonesian fried rice dish so flavourful and fiery that it practically danced on your tongue. He’d make it for me and my friends during those high school years when our house felt more like a train station than a home. Kids coming and going, dropping backpacks and stories, always knowing there’d be something good on the stove and someone who was genuinely glad you were there.

Because that’s who my dad was. It didn’t matter who you were, where you came from, or why you were there—you belonged. And he’d feed you like you were family.

There’s a quote I stumbled upon recently that stopped me in my tracks:

“I can’t stop thinking about how love is stored in the kitchen. When somebody cooks for you or you make food for somebody, that’s the purest corner of the heart that gets on the plate.”

Yep. That’s my dad. Right there in one sentence.

And if there was one thing he loved almost as much as feeding people, it was his spice rack. It was his pride and joy. A living, breathing museum of his culinary adventures. I still remember the excitement in his eyes the day he bought saffron for the first time—this tiny vial of golden threads that cost more than a fancy bottle of wine. He held it like it was treasure. And it was. I still have that very same bottle.

When I was a teenager, I spent one hot summer afternoon peeling off every old, sticky label on his jars. I made him new ones. Neat, matching, crisp. A makeover that still kept the story intact. Some of those jars, I still use in my own kitchen today. I’ve updated the labels again—of course—but kept the jars. They remind me of him. Of who I learned to be in the kitchen. Of what it means to feed someone not just with food, but with love.

So when I put together my own spice rack, I knew exactly what I wanted. An eclectic mix of old and new. Some jars with decades of fingerprints and others shiny and just unboxed. Repurposed, mismatched, full of stories. But with matching labels to bring them together—to remind me that even if they look different, even if they came from different places, they all belong.

Just like our kitchen.

Just like our table.

Just like our gatherings.

It doesn’t matter how old the jar is, where it came from, or why it’s there—it belongs.

And that’s the kind of table I want to set. One where everything—and everyone—has a place.

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