When I got married my culinary skills were limited to brewing tea and coffee, and not very well at that. It helped that I went into a plantation house with an army of household help or R and I would have surely starved.
My mother worried endlessly. Not as much for R’s welfare – I suspect – as about what people would say about a girl who couldn’t cook. So every letter brought with it a treasured family recipe.
In English – except for the names of a few spices that she didn’t know the right term for – because I wasn’t comfortable with the Kannada script. And with exact quantities, although her cooking was instinctive and she had never ever measured her ingredients before.
I have come a long way since of course, and have singlehandedly catered to parties of more than a hundred people at a time (have to confess I have gotten
rather very lazy of late), but try as I might, these recipes even when followed to a T, never turn out quite like Mom’s.