Priya

My mother cooked from memory. No recipes written down, no scales on the counter. Just feel — the sound the mustard seeds make when they pop, the exact moment to add the coconut milk so it doesn't split. I grew up in her kitchen in Chennai before we moved to Singapore, and I've spent the last fifteen years trying to keep her cooking alive.

Tamil and Kerala cooking are not the same thing, and I don't pretend they are. My Tamil food is bold and dry-spiced: Chettinad chicken blackened with kalpasi and marathi mokku. My Kerala food is coastal and coconut-rich: fish moilee that barely needs chewing. I do both, and I never mix them up.

I cook South Indian food the way it should be eaten — communally, on banana leaf if you'd like, with rice and all the sides in the right order. I'll spend an afternoon in your kitchen getting everything ready. You come home to the smell of curry leaves and fenugreek, and dinner is on the table.