How Autism Makes Me a Better Chef

For a lot of autistic people, our senses are always on. Sounds, textures, smells, lights—they don't fade into the background the way they do for most people. It's not bad, it's just louder, closer, and more constant.

And for me, that's carried right into how I cook.

I can smell when yeast has bloomed before the timer goes off. I can feel when pizza dough isn't right, even if it looks fine. After cutting a few pieces, I can tell by touch when a dough ball is within half an ounce of my target weight.

When something's cooking on the stove, I can hear the moment it's ready for the next step—when the sizzle changes pitch or the bubbles shift rhythm. In a convection oven, I can smell when bread or pizza is finished before the timer beeps.

You can hear water starting to boil before you see the bubbles. You can smell garlic just as it turns that perfect golden color. You can hear a sauce begin to simmer and know it's time to turn it down.

That's why my sauces start with chunks of onion, garlic, and peppers. I cook them down, then blend—but not perfectly smooth. I want you to experience those little pieces of texture and flavor. It matters.

If you pay attention when you cook—really listen and breathe it in—your senses will start talking to you, too.

That's what cooking is for me: sensory, intuitive, alive. The kind of thing you can't measure—you just have to feel it.

Chef J.R.