Humming Spice Girls yet? “Slam it to the left, if you’re havin’ a good time!”

Well, grab your boots, metaphorically speaking, and get ready to shake up your taste buds, because this is the chaotic, colorful, and downright delicious notes of a food-obsessed person who treats eating like an Olympic sport and spices like gold medals. I am the girl who may willing to try (almost) anything on a plate, give me something very local and I will give it a go, as long as it is not snails (slimy imposters), spinach paste-ish (thank you, childhood, for that green-sludge PTSD), or anything breakdancing on my fork. I live in Turkey, where bland food is basically a crime, and my heart belongs to spice bazaars with their dazzling reds, yellows, and that magical spice-dust haze floating above mountains of flavor. When travelling to different places, I let my culinary curiosity lead me to local bazars and markets to snag local spices and mixes to fuel my kitchen experiments.

First, Turkey, where every meal is a time machine to the Ottoman Empire or a caravan across the Silk Road. Living here is like being a kid in a flavor candy store, cumin, sumac, saffron, Aleppo pepper in different levels of “hotness”, and those sneaky blends for meat, fish, chicken, soups, pilaf, salads that make your taste buds go bananas. Recently, I stumbled upon a stall in Karaköy slinging balık dürüm, fish wrapped in flatbread with a spice-and-sauce combo so divine I went speechless. I tried recreating it at home, but my kitchen ended up looking like a spice bomb exploded, and the result tasted like “needs more magic.” Still, I am obsessed. Turkey’s food scene is a love letter to bold flavors.

Spice bazaars for me like a therapy and cardio in one. Wandering through Istanbul’s local markets, you are hypnotized by the colors, paprika’s fiery red, turmeric’s sunny glow, saffron’s golden swagger, and that fragrant spice dust hovering like a flavor fog. The smells! One sniff and I am either on a desert caravan or just really hungry. I am that weirdo sniffing spice bags like a sommelier sniffs the finest Italian or French wines, haggling with vendors for an extra scoop of hot pepper while sipping their mandatory tea (because in Turkey, tea is the handshake before the spice deal or any deal actually). My spice cabinet is seriously a global summit. India’s garam masala, because who does not love a proper Indian curry that punches your soul with flavor? Sri Lanka’s curry collection, with a mix for every mood, meal, and existential crisis. Vietnam’s lemongrass-chili blend that is basically a Southeast Asian love letter. And Madagascar? Oh, I went feral for their dried piri-piri, green and red dynamite, on the market in Antananarivo. The first time I cooked with it, I slightly overdid it and I watched The Other Me turn bright read, waiting for the steam to shoot from his ears. Worth it. I still sprinkle that fire in my dishes, but now I respect its power.

Now off to Middle East. That is where spices become poetry. In Beirut, Lebanon, I lost my heart to falafel so crispy it crunched and bread from a small street bakery dusted with a za’atar blend that’s herby, tangy, and a little sassy—think thyme, sesame, and sumac having a party. I bought a bag of that za’atar to have at home and to pretend I am still at that street stall. Then there is Amman, Jordan. That is where I realised that hummus is not just a dip placed next to a bowl of salad, but it is literally a lifestyle. I had different servings topped with everything but the kitchen sink: spiced minced meat, toasted pine nuts, not to mention hummus baked in bread. I snagged a Jordanian spice mix called hawaj, a cumin-heavy blend to make my home-made hummus feel like it is ready to star in a Middle Eastern tv-drama.

I cannot forget about Morocco, a country known for its spices and tagines. I lost my mind in a Marrakech souk over spice blends that make Turkish mixes look minimalist. Picture this: I am weaving through a labyrinth of stalls, the air thick with cumin, cinnamon, turmeric, coriander, blends of spices for any dish, where vendors with a grin like they are selling secrets hand a blend of 30-plus spices. Some mixes may even boast up to 80 different spices blended. Eighty! No wonder, tajines are so delicious.

Interestingly, there is no single recipe for this mix, apparently there can be found dozens of variations across the country and Northern Africa. It is called ras el hanout, and it’s like someone bottled a Moroccan caravan and shook it up with fairy dust. For me, at least. Coriander, cardamom, nutmeg, clove, mace, anise seeds, and probably a pinch of wizardry. It is the kind of mix that turns a boring chicken into a spectacular plate of food. I haggled so hard I think I accidentally proposed marriage, but I walked away with almost a kilo of that magic dust. Back home, I tossed it into everything, minced meat, chicken, rice, even my scrambled eggs.

My spice quest is a global affair. Just recently, I got back from Uzbekistan, where I dove headfirst into their flavor scene like a kid in a ball pit. The markets in Samarkand and Tashkent look like pure chaos, vendors calling after you and trying to get your attention. Piles of saffron, black cumin, and peppers that promise you a culinary journey through the Silk Road. I nabbed a spice mix for everything and spice blend specifically for plov called zirvak. I can tell you that my suitcase smelled like a rice mixed with veggies and raisins topped with lamb meat when I opened it at home. Add that to my haul from India (curry so good it should have its own fan club), Sri Lanka (a curry mix for every day of the week), Vietnam (pho spices I hid in every corner of my and The Other Me’s luggage), and Madagascar’s piri-piri inferno. Each jar in my kitchen is like a postcard from a place I had eaten my way through, usually with a side of questionable life choices.

I relax when I cook and I do it every day. Even though my kitchen occasionally looks like a war zone, different ingredients all over the place, air filled with coriander clouds, chili flakes used like confetti, and me, channeling my inner Ina Garten and Anthony Bourdain combined, eyeballing measurements like “eh, that feels spicy enough.” I’m no Michelin chef, but I can whip up curry or meatballs that will make your tastebuds dance. There are no rules, just “whatever I feel like” in this particular moment. And maybe a fire extinguisher for when I get too cocky with the piri-piri or Aleppo pepper.

My spice obsession has its quirks, no doubt. All my travel clothes usually smell like that Moroccan mix of 80 spices, including my shoes, which makes me one of the travelers with their own “micro-climate”. I still stumble across curry blends from India, tucked at the back of the kitchen cabinet, bought years ago like hidden treasures, yet I cannot stop buying new ones. I do not need a reason, sometimes I buy them just because their vibrant reds and yellows are too tempting to pass up. But the perks? Oh, they’re worth it. Spices are my passport stamps. Uzbekistan’s just the latest chapter—next stop, who knows? Maybe Mexico for some mole magic or Ethiopia for a berbere blend that will blow my socks off (those that do not already smell like ras el hanout).

So, here is my unsolicited advice: life is too short for boring food. Hit a spice bazaar, haggle like you’re auditioning for a Turkish drama. Toss that sumac on your salad, eat your morning bread dipped in olive oil and zahtar (zahter in Turkey), that piri-piri on your fish, that ras el hanout on… basically on everything.