Recipes and tales

Summer was my favourite time of the year—not because of the sunshine or mangoes (though both were nice), but because it meant a full house, full plates, and a heart fuller than my grandma’s spice stash.

Every year, without fail, a small army of cousins would descend on one of our homes like migrating birds with luggage, opinions, and appetites. The living room would be strewn with limbs, laughter, board game pieces, and the occasional sandal that had mysteriously become a weapon of justice during a game of winker gone wrong. 

But the real magic happened in the kitchen!

That was Grandma’s kingdom—no, her theatre. And I was her captive audience of one. She didn't just cook. She performed. With a ladle as her baton, she orchestrated symphonies of sizzling, spluttering, bubbling chaos. Garlic hit the hot oil like cymbals in an overture. Mustard seeds danced a wild jig. Turmeric dusted everything like fairy gold.

While her hands moved with ancient precision, she spoke—mostly to me and sometimes to the food but mostly me—about missionaries from far-off lands who taught her how to fold dumplings like secrets or braise meat until it confessed. Each visitor had left her with a recipe and a story, and she collected both like precious heirlooms. I didn't realise it then, but something sacred was happening: I was being seasoned.

My ears listened, my nose memorised, my tongue became fluent in five kinds of pickle. And somewhere between the tomato rasam and the coconut rice, Skillet Stories was quietly sizzling into existence—one anecdote, one rogue curry leaf at a time.
I was hooked. Still am.