A Warm Meal Can Heal What Words Cannot.

As I flipped through the old notebook tucked in the corner of my bookshelf, the fragile pages greeted me with the aroma of my childhood. There it was—my mother’s handwriting, gently faded, yet deeply etched into memory. Her recipes weren’t just about food. Nourishing ritual and fragrance of love permeated her cooking.

In an age when we rush through meals and outsource nourishment, I’m finding my way back to her kitchen. One recipe at a time. One mindful stir at a time. Because the truth is: wellness doesn’t only lie in yoga mats and supplements. Sometimes, it simmers quietly in your rasam.

For Mother, the Kitchen was her sacred space.

She cooked with love and devotion to her family. Her movements—chopping, grinding, stirring—were calming. Even when life was chaotic, she returned to the stove calmly. She had no idea she was practising mindfulness. But that’s what it was.

We didn’t call it “self-care” back then, but the way she prepared food—with intention, grace, and affection—was just that. She trusted seasonal ingredients, chose what grew around us, and rarely wasted anything. She cooked with what was available, never what was trending.

Her spice box was her medicine cabinet, and stirring it into her cooking was like creating a magic potion for her food.

Looking back, I now see how deeply rooted her cooking was in healing. Turmeric and pepper in her rasam soothed the throat and warmed the body. Cumin in her buttermilk aided digestion on sweltering summer days. Ragi malt in the mornings gave us strength and kept our minds sharp. These weren’t just meals. They were silent gestures of care. Her kitchen was her way of saying: I see you. I nourish you. Now, isn’t that the essence of wellness?

She was the original sustainability chef, even before it became fashionable. Peels of Banana, Mango, and Sweet Lime became chutney. The leftover rice turned into lemon rice the next morning. Pickles were sun-dried in large jars, and masalas were ground fresh each week. Nothing was thrown away unless necessary. Even the coconut shell became a ladle with a handle attached.

Here are three simple recipes from her notebook that still hold me when I need energy, focus, and comfort. For morning nourishment, there was Spiced Ragi Malt, full of energy and clarity. It was a drink made with ragi flour, jaggery, cardamom, and warm milk.

For me, it is my morning Mantra: “I start my day with grounding and grace.”

For mid-day reset, there was Jeera Rasam or Soup. It was tamarind water boiled with cumin, pepper, garlic, and turmeric. It fills the belly with power, soothes the gut and awakens our taste buds and senses.

For me, it is my midday Mantra: “With each spoonful, I return to myself.”

The Evening comfort food was Akki Rotti with Coconut Chutney, a sense of returning home. The Rice flour flatbread was served with ground coconut, green chillies, a pinch of tamarind, a slice of ginger, and coriander leaves. My Home on a plate.

For me, it is the evening Mantra: “I am held in the rituals of my roots.”

My kitchen is now my self-care corner.

I no longer rush through cooking. I light my stove with positive vibes. I play soft music. I touch the spices with awareness. I remember her. Cooking food isn’t about perfection or drudgery but about warmth and love infused into it. I chop slowly, breathe deeply and

stir with intention. Every time I cook now, I’m not just feeding my body—I’m feeding the inner child who misses her mother’s voice. I’m healing her.

Coming to you, what is that one dish from your childhood that still holds you gently? Have you ever tried cooking

as a meditative ritual, being present with awareness?

Today, I invite you to cook a forgotten recipe, mindfully, and serve it to your family and yourself with deep affection, just as your mother did. Because food, when prepared with intention, becomes a memory, a shared legacy. It becomes a cherished tradition that nurtures the generation.