Words not needed

On Saturday of this past week I prepared dinner for some friends. On the menu, a curry with some Indian flatbreads known as Roti. It's been a while since I've made these wonderful folded treats, so I went looking for the recipe. What I found was a piece of paper with a phone number written across the top, and a list of ingredients. That's it.

Nowhere on the paper were there any instructions about how the ingredients should be put together. There was no indication about what I should expect in terms of what it would look or feel like. The only indication that it was indeed the recipe I was looking for was the phone number at the top of the sheet.

I have a pretty good memory for phone numbers, so it wasn't long before I remembered that this number was assigned to Aunty Mina. This is the phone number that she had for so many years since she lived in the same apartment, and never moved for as long as I've known - ever since she had moved to this country. Aunty Mina was the master baker who shared her recipes with just enough of us to make sure that the traditions would be continued; I think there are about three or four of us who have this particular recipe.

Strangely enough, there was a period of a couple of months not so long ago when I wasn't sure what this recipe was for, and I actually came close to thinking it was something entirely different. Luckily the truth about these few lines, scribbled on a scrap of paper probably as I was on a phone somewhere, came to light just in time for these delicious flat breads to come to life again.

Aside from the list of ingredients, the only instruction is DO NOT KNEAD, complete with the appropriate emphasis. Thankfully, because I've had the opportunity to make them before, I know how to do it, and don't have to guess about how to put them together. If it was anyone else - someone perhaps who had no idea what roti are, or someone who has never had the pleasure of making them, the few words on this sheet of paper would appear only as meaningless drivel. Instead, in the right hands, they convey not only the essentials about a recipe, but memories about the love that was invested every time Aunty Mina found herself in the kitchen, preparing some feast or other for those she loved the most.

And of course, every time we continue these traditions, there's a part of ourselves that is invested in the recipe, shared with family and friends of our own.