There are two types of cooks in this world: those who keep their recipes secret, and those who share with joyful abandon. As someone who falls strongly into the latter camp, I am fascinated by the people who manage to maintain an air of mystery around their culinary creations. They breeze into a potluck supper with their signature dish, the one that everyone eagerly anticipates because nobody else knows how to make it. When a guest asks how the sauce is so wonderfully light, they simply answer with a smile.
I wonder what motivates some to divulge their recipes while others prefer not to. Perhaps it’s a difference in the idea of “ownership” – do recipes belong to anyone, can they be plagiarised, stolen even? Or are we merely stewards, just one stop in a recipe’s long trajectory? For those with closely guarded family recipes, they are more than just a set of instructions: they are inherited fragments of family history. Being part of a select club who know the key ingredient for Grandpa’s lasagne, or the exact proportions for Aunty’s biryani can even strengthen familial bonds. Recipes become an edible continuation of heritage.
