If there is one thing I do remember about the time after Nani Mummy died, it was the intense desire to recreate her recipes. On any evenings that my in-laws went out with friends, they would leave cooked food for us, but instead I’d take the opportunity to cook unhindered, with my own pans, spices and utensils, carving out a space on the kitchen counter.
I’d been searching for the recipes that Nani Mummy cooked, but no one knew how to cook them, so I began calling my mother every day – just as she had done with her own mother for many years when she first got married. Mummy dictated methods to me over the phone with her usual vague measurements – ‘a pinch’ of this, or ‘a little’ of that – but I pieced together the recipes by writing down the ingredients and trying to cook them with andaza, much like she did. Sometimes I spent days just jotting down flavours I remembered from the simple lunches she made. I tried to recall Nani Mummy’s matter-of-fact way of cooking, talking to me as she pulled out ingredients from the fridge or store cupboard. I even found myself craving dishes I didn’t like: chana daal with onions, or turnip and mutton.
