She growled something in assent. The only time she likes logic is when she thinks of it first. So I made a list of 35 dishes, and she took a year to write them down. She presented them to me with a note that contained the sentence, "Try them, adjust seasoning to taste, and call me if these don't work." I should have known.

I started with roast turkey, an old family recipe we got from our Brazilian hairdresser. I looked at Mum's instructions. All I needed to do was marinate a turkey for 24 hours in red wine and a long list of seasonings.

Wait a minute. I called her. "Don't you usually put something inside the turkey?" I asked. "Well yes," she said. "You can put onions in there, or apples and prunes, or oranges."

"Mum, you have never put anything in this turkey but onions."
She laughed. "Well, you could put in other things."

"Ok, i get it," I said. "This is your passive-aggressive pprotest to my presuming to take your mummy power away right?" She laughed harder. "Oh, and by the way," she said, "slice an onion or two and put it in the pan with some water, for when you baste."

I looked at the recipe. The word onion didn't appear once, much less twice. "Fine," I said coldly.

Her tone became conciliatory now. "Listen sweetheart," she said. "I used to get upset with my mother too, whenever I'd ask for her recipes. She never measured anything. She would tell me what I always told you: 'Watch me.' You do it so many times that you don't pay attention to how much you use. You see how it smells, how it looks. Its always not the same!"

"But I want it to be the same," I said. "I want my house to smell the way yours does on special occasions, when everything's delicious and everyone feels lucky to be there."

"It'll be fine," she said. Her doorbell rang. "If you have trouble, call me." She hung up.

After I put the turkey in, I made mashed potatoes. Growing up in a kosher home, I always felt deprived when it came to mashed potatoes. The only time you could make them for real was to serve with fish, since butter, cream or milk cannot be mixed with meat.  In our house, mashed potatoes usually meant salt and margarine. So over the years I studied different recipes and finally came up with a version I like. 

The turkey cooked faster than Mum said it would. I called my husband and stepson Simon, to the table. "You made a turkey for no reason?" Simon asked.
"Yeah, I wanted to practice," I said. "Cool," he answered, while his father craved.

It tasted exactly like my mother's! Maybe all those times I watched her really had paid off. We filled our plates, and talked and laughed and ate. We all had seconds. Simon turned to me his face aglow. I glowed back. I had done it --- replicated the turkey, made it home..

"These are the best mashed potatoes I've ever had," he rhapsodised. "Oh I am glad," I said. "How do you make them?" he asked.

I went blank. "Butter," I started. "Cream." He nodded. Our plates were emptied; the magic moment had passed. He went to watch TV.

Back in the kitchen, I glanced at the remnants of butter and cream. How much had I used? I couldn't remember. I thought of Simon looking at me, eyes wide. And I realised why writing these recipes had been so hard for my mother. And for her mother. Because it's not about butter or cream or onion. The ingredient you can't write down is how much you love your family -- how much you relish feeding them, caring for them, watching a child's face transform in an instant, looking up at you with a mouthful of food and safety and wonder.

"How was the turkey?" Mum asked the next day.
"Great," I said "A big success."
"What did you make with it?"
I hesitated. "Mashed potatoes."
"Oh," she replied. "Do you have a good recipe?"
I smiled. "Actually," I said, "I do."