The seeds of this book were sown just a few years ago but the actual writing of it has taken me back a dozen years. To the times when I was a nervous beginner myself. To the days when, on the dawn of my marriage, I began furiously pestering my mother, numerous aunts and cousins, friends, our cook, my grandmother for recipes, in the hope that they would rescue me when the actual moment of truth arrived and I was expected to turn out a palatable meal. I must admit that I had tried the alternative too. I prayed regularly and desperately for a husband who, along with other expressions of affection, would also declare, ‘I love cooking!†And thus absolve me from making any efforts in this department. That, however, didn’t work and as it became increasingly clear to me that I would be the sole repository of culinary expertise in our home, I began to evince a sudden interest in what happened in the kitchen.
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