My mother has never been a very good cook. Between never actually having learnt before getting married, working full time while raising us, and honestly having better things to worry about, she never really became what one could call a culinary savant.
We used to constantly disagree about what to eat on a given day, what she was sending me for school lunch, or how to make a certain thing. I was too spoilt to ever actually cook anything for myself, but still I whined anyway.
Over time, though, we settled on a shared menu of ten or fifteen dishes that I liked to eat and that were easy for her to cook. At my core, I'm a creature of habit, so I never had a problem with eating the same thing over and over again.
It was when I went to college I found myself missing her simple meals of dal-chawal, or poha, or just some instant noodles with vegetables (because she insists that would offset the noodles' unhealthiness somehow).
Over the years I've realised that love can be as simple as growing to miss your mother's cooking. The flavours of love are the ones we grow up with, and the ones that take us back to feeling like a twelve-year old, no matter where or when we are.
At the end of the day, love is finding comfort in the simple things people do for us, day in, and day out.
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