Mission

When people hear the word lifestyle, their minds drift to glossy postcards of life—fancy restaurants with candlelit tables, distant beaches where the waves hum lullabies, or the polished veneer of luxury living. To “live life” is often imagined as sipping margaritas on the beach or dangling from cliffs with the wild abandon of a bird in flight. And yes, there’s a thrill in that—a spark that dances and then fades. But life, as I’ve come to know it, isn’t all firecrackers and spectacle. It’s the soft, steady hum beneath it all—the moments too modest to make headlines but too rich to forget.

It’s the slow heartbeat of a Sunday morning, where the sunlight spills through threadbare curtains, and you linger over the newspaper while your child sleeps, their breath rising and falling in quiet rhythm. It’s the first sip of chai on a winter balcony, steam mingling with the cold air as the breeze tugs gently at your hair. It’s the wild, joyous bark of your dog, tail thumping against the floor, as you step through the door after a long day, the kind of welcome that makes you feel, for a moment, like the most important person in the world. It’s the simple act of cooking—not for likes, not for the perfect angle or the clever caption—but for the people you love, the laughter around the table warming the walls of your home.

And when it’s all said and done, will we mourn the parties we didn’t attend or the cliffs we didn’t climb? Or will it be the quiet things we ache for—the dinner with our parents postponed because work wouldn’t wait, the Saturday morning walks we promised the kids and never took, the tiny, fragile moment when a ladybug landed on a blade of grass, and we didn’t stop to notice? Life, in all its fullness, resides there, in the shadows of the extraordinary, where the ordinary hums softly.

But somewhere along the road, home-cooked meals—the purest act of care—got pushed aside. We started photographing our plates instead of tasting them, choosing presentation over flavour, signaling to the world that we’re living lives worth envying. We traded the smell of garlic sizzling in oil for the hollow convenience of tearing open a packet of processed ramen, stirring in the artificial seasoning, and watching it whirl in the sterile glow of the microwave. We told ourselves we were too busy, too important to cook. And so, we reached for shortcuts—fast food, ready-to-eat trays, boxes that promised home-cooked flavour but offered only convenience.

Yet, cooking has always been more than food to me. It’s a legacy. My mother, ever resourceful, taught me the art of making something from nothing—the magic of pulling together a meal in twenty minutes flat when the clock’s already scolding you. She taught me how to stretch, to improvise, to make leftovers into something new and beautiful. My grandmother, though, was a different kind of artist. Patient. Precise. She could spend hours coaxing flavours from a pot, tasting, adjusting, tasting again, until the dish sang.

From them, I inherited more than recipes. I learned adaptability from my mother—the dance of quick hands and quicker thinking. From my grandmother, I learned patience, the joy of slowing down, of letting the process take its time. And now, when I crave the comfort of their kitchens, I find myself grinding spices by hand, slicing vegetables with the care they deserve, stirring slowly, letting the smells and sounds pull me back.

This blog is my kitchen journal. A labour of love. A bridge that spans generations. It’s my way of leaving behind more than just recipes. It’s a breadcrumb trail—of meals, of memories, of the quiet, golden moments where life, in all its messy beauty, is truly lived. The recipes here may not be picture-perfect or aesthetically plated, nor are they measured to the last grain—they're guided by andaaz, that instinctive feel most good cooks rely on. Someday, when I’m no longer just a phone call away, I hope my children (or grandchildren) will find their way here—to the flavours that raised them, to the stories that held them close, to the simple truth that love often comes with the smell of something warm on the stove.