A new kind of cook

^{By Yewande Komolafe, a recipe developer, columnist and video host for The Times.}

I was born with sickle cell disease, an inherited blood disorder. It doesn’t hinder my passion for food, but I had to learn to navigate the world with balance — alternating periods of exertion and rest to prevent a painful crisis.

One such crisis began in December 2023. I went to a New York City hospital for what I thought would be a routine stay. Six weeks later, I woke from a coma in a different hospital. A tube helped me breathe. Eventually, doctors would amputate my legs and my fingers. After seven months in the hospital, I went home in an ambulance. Eventually, I’d acquire an electric wheelchair and prosthetic hands and legs.

Throughout my two-decade career as a cook — working in restaurants and test kitchens, developing recipes and writing cookbooks — I have been aware of limitations: the hottest temperature I could quickly coax flavor from carrots, how impulsively I could move my body without eliciting a sickle cell crisis.

Now I would face my greatest limitations yet. I was certain I would return to the kitchen. I just needed to figure out how.

Adaptation

In the hospital, a friend would visit me with pastries. That’s how I first encountered the brown butter cornmeal cake from Radio Bakery in Brooklyn. It was assertive in its nuttiness, an exquisite balance of sweet and savory, with a crunchy exterior and a dense, pillowy softness within. It was the perfect complement to the first sips of coffee I could manage. I knew I wanted to bake a version of it.

When I got home, I had to rediscover myself — as a person, a wife, a mother and a cook. A daily rotation of home health aides assisted me with the mundane tasks of bathing and dressing.

Yewande, right, with her assistant Stasia de Tilly, left. Lanna Apisukh for The New York Times

I began dreaming of the foods I yearned to make. So much of my body had changed, but I still had my sense of taste and smell, my culinary knowledge, my ability to eye when a dish is cooked just right. But when I returned to work as a columnist and recipe developer last April, I now needed the help of a cooking assistant who would act as my hands.

The inspiration for my recipes still begins as a sensory image evocative enough to pine for, or a thought that floats across my mind. But how I write them down has changed, as I talk to my computer and rely on its accessibility software to record my words in text form. (Sometimes, it doesn’t understand my Nigerian accent until I enunciate the syllables in a clipped tone.)

Each day, my rotating cast of assistants and I begin at my kitchen table, going over a recipe step by step. They’re in charge of chopping and slicing ingredients, cooking the dish, navigating the too-tall counters and impossible-to-open cabinets. I watch, touch, listen, taste and take in the aromas. I try to lead with kindness, and I don’t mind repeating myself.

I’m not always successful. I sometimes get impatient sharing a space that was once mine alone. And there’s the frustration of needing to ask for help while giving guidance. It’s odd to lead my personal kitchen brigade without the ability to show the best method for folding butter into dough for delicately thin layers.

I’ve tried to focus on the skills I still have and consign to the future the ones I must relearn using my new prosthetic limbs, like how to whisk a bowl of cream to milky soft peaks.

Nearly two years into my recovery, I finally got around to adapting the recipe for the brown butter cornmeal cake. It’s inspired by a classic French brown butter financier, substituting coarse ground cornmeal for the traditional almond flour, while turbinado sugar gently sweetens the cake and gives it a crunchy exterior.

^{I added my own touch: cherries for their tartness and fleshy texture (fresh or frozen; sour, Bing or dark sweet cherries will work).} 

Revival

In a life spent traversing long distances, my journey back to the kitchen has been one of the greatest distances I’ve ever traveled. Cooking was once my time to reflect on the past and the future as I stood stirring or watching something come together in a pan, planning articles, recipes, cookbooks.

Now so much of my life is spent leaning on others, and making food is no longer a solitary and meditative act. It calls to mind a phrase in Yoruba, “A jọ ṣé pọ̀,” meaning, “We do it together” or “We collaborate.” This has become a refrain that I recite while I’m writing recipes, sharing meals with loved ones and performing the once simple tasks of everyday life.

I’m still very much in recovery. I’ve had my prosthetic hands for several months; I’m now learning to walk on my new legs. But I relish the curative effects — physiologically and psychologically — of food. Sometimes it’s a Nigerian dish that, for a brief moment, sends me back to the kitchen of my childhood home in Lagos. Even a pedestrian dish like fried calamari or shrimp scampi can excite my will to live. I find myself marveling at how little it takes to feel alive.