The smells of home-cooked goodness permeate the long room, the dim lights shooting through the slight haze of heat, spice, and warm carmaderie. The pungent aromas of curry, cumin, and chives, interspersed with the cloying sweetness of mandarin oranges and raisins, is almost overwhelming, stamping the room with a strong sense of tradition. It’s deja vu. These are the smells, sights, sounds, and memories of the Sunday dinners of our grandmothers, the mortars and pestles of smoky village hearths transformed into backdrops of modern stovetops, granite countertops, and teflon saucepans. It’s impossible to gauge the exact moment, but it’s done – it’s complete. We have now become our mothers.
