Rizogalo and Semolina Halva - comfort in every spoonful

Cooking without recipes, guided by intuition and memory

Cooking Without a Recipe

I learned to cook from my mother, and there were never any recipes. Just a bit of this, a splash of that. If I asked how much, she’d say, “You’ll see.” If I asked how long to cook something, it was always, “Until it’s ready.” That’s how I learned - by watching, tasting, staying close.

It wasn’t about exact measurements or perfect timing. It was about paying attention. Listening to the sizzle in the pan, noticing how the smell changed as something browned, tasting again and again until it felt right.

Of course, some things do ask for a little more precision—baking, especially, doesn’t always leave room for improvisation. But even then, there’s space for intuition. You know when a dough feels too dry, when something needs five more minutes in the oven, when a cake is done not because the timer says so, but because the kitchen smells just right.

Cooking this way isn’t always tidy. It doesn’t always fit neatly onto paper. But it stays with you - in your hands, in your senses, in the way you move around the kitchen. It becomes a kind of muscle memory, or maybe something softer than that. A feeling.

And that’s exactly what rizogalo is for me. A dish made not with precision, but with care.

There’s something about rizogalo that just soothes. It’s soft, sure - creamy rice, slow-simmered in milk, a little cinnamon on top - but it’s more than that. It’s gentle. Familiar. A kind of comfort that doesn’t need to announce itself.

For me, rizogalo feels like home. Not in some big, dramatic way - more like a quiet memory that sneaks up on you. One spoonful and I’m back in kitchens I barely remember, hearing voices I haven’t heard in ages, standing in places I mostly visit in my mind now.

It’s what my mum made. Or maybe her mum did - I’m not totally sure. She didn’t talk much about her past. I wish I could ask her now - about Thessaloniki in the ’40s and ’50s, how the sea looked, how her kitchen smelled when she cooked. But I can’t. What I do have are the dishes. The little ritual. This way of remembering.

And maybe that’s enough.

Sometimes I wonder if she made rizogalo all the time or just now and then - when the milk was fresh, or when someone needed cheering up. I don’t have a clear picture of her at the stove. Just fragments.

She didn’t leave behind any recipes. No notes, no instructions. Just the taste of it - warm, milky, maybe a hint of vanilla or lemon depending on the day. That’s what I’ve carried. And now when I make it, it’s less about getting it “right” and more about listening. Feeling. Guessing. Letting her guide me in her quiet way.

That’s what these kinds of dishes are like. They don’t need precision- just your presence. Stay close. Stir gently. Taste as you go. It’s not about being exact - it’s about returning to a feeling.

I’ve since landed on a version I trust—the one I made in Ikaria, with fresh goat’s milk. It’s the one that made it into my book. Properly measured, yes, but still full of memory. Here it is - I know you will love it as much as I do.

RECIPE

Rizogalo (Greek Rice Pudding)

From IKARIA: Food and Life in the Blue Zone

155 g (¾ cup) short-grain rice
1 litre (4 cups) full cream milk
3 strips of lemon peel
80 g (⅓ cup) caster sugar
Ground cinnamon, to serve

Bring 375 ml (1½ cups) water to the boil in a saucepan over high heat. Add the rice, reduce the heat to low, and cook until all the water is absorbed.

Pour in the milk and lemon peel and continue cooking on low heat, stirring now and then so the rice doesn’t stick. Once the rice is cooked, add the sugar and stir to combine. Cook for 2 more minutes.

Remove a few tablespoons of the rice with a slotted spoon, mash it with a fork, then return it to the pot—this extra starch helps thicken the pudding naturally.

Remove from the heat, pour into individual bowls, and let cool at room temperature. Sprinkle with cinnamon before serving.

Keeps well in the fridge and is just as good chilled the next day.