My mother’s kitchen is a space which expands its physical parameters and infiltrates into numerous parts of our lives.
It starts with her heart. Then it makes its way into my father’s garden and then back again to her kitchen throughout all times of the year. It is the place where I have learned to love vegetables of all types. Many plants have made a home for themselves inside the kitchen during the winter months to remind us that there is life to sustain us and life that needs to be nurtured.
Sometimes you can feel the presence of my mother’s kitchen. You become aware of its existence as cumin, turmeric, chilli powder, garlic, ginger, and onions dance together in a pan and marry their way into a a remarkable medley of flavour. Whether it happens at 6 in the morning or while I’m walking from the bus stop after school, the scent wafts into my lungs and becomes a cherished memory. It’s the true fragrance of nostalgia that never fails to trigger my sleeplessness, homesickness, and above all, my heart.
Many people have experienced her kitchen. She is known for many of her dishes. Her cherry cheesecake, her kheer, and many other savoury and sweet delights. Her countless years of providing for family and friends, the community, and above all, our hearts has all started in her kitchen.
Even though changes have been made to the space throughout the years, the layers of memories have left an indelible mark.
My mother’s kitchen would not be what it is without my mother. As the saying goes, the best way to your heart is through the stomach. For me, it has truly been the case. My insatiable appetite for good food, family, and love was taught by my mother and father. My mother’s kitchen has gone to my heart and there it will stay forever.