Sharing Recipes Before The Internet

How food continues to take me down memory lane

Photo by Land O'Lakes, Inc. on Unsplash

I have always considered myself a bit of a foodie. I love all kinds of food and flavors and enjoy trying new cuisines and dishes. But what I cherish most is the food I grew up eating — dal chawal, rajma and chole chawal, Sindhi curry, and all kinds of locally grown vegetables.

I understood my love for vegetables only after marrying into a household where only a few selected vegetables were cooked. I began to miss bottle gourd, bitter gourd, ridge gourd, and pumpkin, vegetables I had never particularly fancied when my mother made them frequently. I was surprised by my own cravings and amused by the irony. That was when I realized that the saying, ‘We realize the value of something only after it is gone,’ was true.

Before marriage, I had cooked only a handful of times, mostly dal, rice, and potato curry. But I had closely observed my mother in the kitchen, so I knew the basics. I remember how she finely chopped onions without even using a chopping board, how she insisted on freshly ground ginger and garlic for every recipe, as I often ground it for her, how patiently she sautéed onions on a low flame before adding tomatoes, and how effortlessly she tempered the dal. I was always in awe of her chapatis. Even today, I feel I cannot match the softness and perfection of my mother’s or even my mother-in-law’s chapatis.

Being a child of the 90s, when the internet was not easily accessible, I witnessed how women carefully wrote recipes in diaries, learned from one another, exchanged tips, and passed culinary traditions down through generations. I remember my mother inviting her sister over to learn how to make fried rice and Manchurian, and a friend from Kerala who lived nearby teaching her to make payasam. Everything was learned face to face, in real time. I was part of that beautiful ritual, enjoying the live ‘cookery shows,’ tasting like a judge, and cheering them on.

Cooking brought warmth into our homes, with conversations, laughter, gossip, and stories all woven around something as simple as learning a new dish. It was real human connection. Now, if I ask a friend for her recipe, she sends me a link to a video. Oh my God, how can I blame her? I would probably do the same.

After marriage, I entered a Maharashtrian household that understood my different cultural background and did not expect me to take over the kitchen immediately. My mother-in-law and sister-in-law were generous in teaching me their style of cooking. Since I knew the basics, I adapted quickly and even earned praise, except, of course, for the humble chapati. Surprisingly, I became quite good at making bhakri.

As time went by, I experienced firsthand that cooking is an art. What you create with the ingredients you have becomes your signature. No two people can recreate the exact same taste, even when following the same recipe.

In my new home, vegetables were cooked in specific, traditional ways, with no tomatoes in leafy greens or okra and no experimentation. I respected that even if it left me slightly disheartened. Later, when my sister-in-law married and moved into a home where every vegetable was prepared differently each time (by then, the internet had arrived), she found herself adjusting too. When she shared this with me, I was bewildered by how rigid tastes and preferences about food can change when given a chance.

Gradually, I found my own freedom to experiment. Belonging to the Sindhi community, my curries leaned on onions and tomatoes, while my in-laws favored coconut, peanuts, and onions as their base. My husband initially preferred the familiar flavors of his childhood, but to his credit, he tried everything I made. Over time, his palate expanded, and so did my confidence.

Today, I am comfortable cooking across cuisines, from regional Indian styles to pasta and burgers, thanks to my Gen Z daughter. I have to give credit to the internet here for offering endless variations for every dish imaginable. Sometimes I wonder if one lifetime would be enough to try every recipe available online. Sometimes I simply work with whatever is in my kitchen, creating dishes with minimal ingredients.

There are dishes like vegetable kurma that I no longer experiment with. I have developed my own definitive version of them, a blend of techniques learned online and my personal instinct. Those, I can proudly say, are my signature recipes.

I must admit, I am not fond of the race for attention that dominates the online space these days. The clickbait, the exaggerated ‘secret’ ingredients, and odd combinations like chips inside a sandwich or chocolate pizza do not appeal to me. I prefer food that feels honest and comforting rather than sensational just like old times.

I deeply wish we would return to learning and sharing recipes face to face, that we would not hesitate to call a friend and ask for her secret to the perfect biryani instead of searching for it online. Maybe we could look up a little less at our screens and a little more toward one another. Somewhere between handwritten recipe diaries and YouTube tutorials, we seem to have lost a small but meaningful kind of closeness. And maybe reclaiming it begins with something as simple as cooking together again.

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