Chaithought: The Secret Ingredient is Always Someone

It’s never just about the dish—it’s who’s across the table, who taught you to make it, and who you can’t wait to feed again.

There are some people who make you fall in love with food—not because they cook like Michelin-star chefs, or because they know the difference between parmigiano and parmesan, but because they make eating feel joyful. Infectious. A celebration, whether it’s a simple omelette or an elaborate lagan seekh.

For me, that person was my father. I’ve always believed he was the one who made my mother fall in love with food. It wasn’t with grand gestures, but with the way he approached every meal—with pure, unfiltered enthusiasm and appreciation. He ate as if every bite deserved applause. Watching him savour food wasn’t just watching someone eat; it was watching someone experience happiness in real time. And slowly, his joy rubbed off on my mother. Her relationship with food deepened. And somewhere along the way, it shaped mine too.

Maybe that’s why I’ve always loved sharing meals with people I love. There’s something magical about eating with people who enjoy food. It’s why I cherish dining with my closest friends. We don’t always agree on what to order, but there’s joy in the negotiation. In trying a new restaurant that just opened around the corner. In going back to that old favourite that always hits the spot. In splitting puffs down the middle, swapping bites, stealing spoonfuls. It’s the shared nod when someone says, “oh, this is SO good.” Somehow, the food tastes better because of it.

At home, it’s my husband who carries this quiet magic. His love language isn’t flowers or poetry—it’s stirring pots and plating up dishes, usually without a recipe in sight. He’s an intuitive cook, a “let’s see what happens” kind of chef. And when it works, it’s like he’s read my mind. Sometimes I’ll describe a flavour, a texture, a craving—“something warm, creamy, spicy but light”—and he’ll make exactly what I didn’t know I needed. It feels a little like alchemy.

Of course, not every trick lands. Like the time he made beetroot hummus so healthy it upset my stomach and left me unable to look at hummus or pita for months, or when he added lemon rinds to a Thai curry, making it bitter and nearly inedible. But that’s part of what I love—he’s always experimenting, always pouring his heart into the meal. It’s how he shows love, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

When we have guests over, it’s usually me in the kitchen. I’m a recipe person. A “call Mom thrice for clarification” person. But I like to improvise too, to trust my palate, to make sure the table feels warm and full, even if the dish isn’t flawless. Feeding people feels like a quiet kind of hospitality, a way of saying: you matter, stay a while, let me take care of you.

And maybe that’s the thread running through it all. The meals we remember aren’t just the ones with the perfect seasoning or technique. They’re the ones tied to faces across the table, to the laughter between bites, to stories passed like second helpings.

Food is never just food. It’s the love we fold into it. The people we feed. The people who feed us. And the secret ingredient, always, is someone. Here’s to sharing more meals, more laughter, and more love—one bite at a time.

Until next time.

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