“Too much garlic!” Amma snaps, muttering in Bengali.

She wants it her way- ancestral, based on her intuition, no rules, no measurements.

I tap numbers into my phone. Science over soul, any day.

She rolls her eyes. Bangles clink. I stir the pot. My speaker blasts music.

The kitchen’s a war zone.

She slides in a pinch of cumin, claiming her territory.

We collide over one pot.

“This is really good! What’d you put in it?”

Maybe flavour isn’t about being the same.

Signing off…