Asking our mothers, grandmothers, or aunts for a recipe is like opening a treasure box… only to realize the treasure has no map.
You’ll never hear, “Take one cup of rice and half teaspoon of salt.”
Instead, this is how they start-
It’s very simple (they’ll begin confidently) and then:
- “Rice? Just take enough so that it fills your palm… maybe two palms if guests are coming.”
- “Salt? Put until it feels right.”
- “Haldi? Just a pinch… not too much, otherwise it’ll taste like medicine.”
You stand there blinking, wondering if you’ve accidentally signed up for a treasure hunt instead of a recipe.
But here’s the catch: their food always turns out heavenly. Be it your paati’s rasam, your chitti’s payasam, or your amma’s kesari, not one thing is out of place, not one flavour overpowering. And the irony? They’ve never measured a single thing in their lives.
Meanwhile, here we are—armed with digital weighing scales, measuring cups, YouTube tutorials paused at 0.05 seconds, and alarms on our phones. Still, our rasam misses that depth, our kesari lacks that warmth, and our payasam never tastes quite “like theirs.”
They weren’t just adding ingredients but what they added instead was stories, patience, and a secret seasoning called love. Every stir carried a memory, every pinch of spice carried a blessing.
Maybe that’s why, even today, when we sit down to eat their food, it doesn’t just fill our stomach but fills our hearts.
After all, recipes can be written, but love cannot and that’s the taste that lingers forever.
Maybe that’s why, no matter how many videos we watch, scales we buy, or recipes we print… their andaaz will always beat our Google tutorials, and our hearts will forever crave that magical taste of home.
Blessmesai 