My mom was an excellent cook,
her kitchen thick with the sizzle of spices
until dementia stole her memory away.
Now she doesn’t even eat properly.
She does not savour the taste—
eats mechanically what is placed in her mouth,
the flavours flat as forgotten ash.
Only sweets still spark her tongue:
molten halwa’s sticky glow,
caramel’s buttery whisper.
Diabetes bars the feast, but once in a while,
we let her devour as much as she craves—
her only indulgence, a fleeting sugar rush.
When I was young, my favourite was appam and chicken stew:
crisp lace edges soaking in creamy coconut broth,
redolent of cardamom pods bursting soft.
She conjured it every Sunday,
and I devoured until my belly swelled, taut as a drum.
Her recipe book, stained with turmeric flecks,
held secrets: chicken stew’s velvet simmer,
appam’s feathery lift, fish moilee’s silky tang,
fish fry’s crackling cumin crust,
mutton chops’ smoky char, brain fry’s tender melt,
biryani’s saffron-scented steam.
Tricks etched in her script: if too salty,
toss in potato wedges to drink the brine,
then pluck them out before the plate.
If fire overwhelms, stir in coconut milk’s cool silk,
sugar’s quiet bloom, or honey’s golden hum.
That book cradled sweets too:
halwa’s ghee-drenched unravel,
cake’s crumbly vanilla sigh,
caramel pudding’s wobbly sheen.
Now we stir those dishes from Mother’s pages,
their aromas coiling like ghosts through the house,
and serve them to her.
She lights up at the first sweet bite—
that makes us whole.
Her memory frays like old dough,
but her taste buds cling to sugar’s warm echo.
We’ll feed it as long as we can,
this thread of flavour binding us still.
