Food is an essential aspect of human existence. The joy of it lies in it’s flavour rather than the sustenance. We can dine at the finest restaurants and eat with friends and families, meals which they lovingly prepare but there is a certain gratification that comes from labouring over the stove with the aroma of blended spices and the sizzles and splutters that emanate from the pots and pans. The sense of achievement as you fill your plate with your freshly created meal that steams its invitation to your senses. You poise yourself at the table, say grace and take the first mouthful. The food, tongue and teeth dance together arousing the taste buds and bombarding the brain with messages and memories. The mouthful is swallowed and you are left with the satisfaction that you are able to cook but with the disappointment that it is not as good as your mother’s cooking. I have come to a conclusion though. A mother’s cooking is always best and this is not to say that others cannot cook but merely that a mother’s cooking is just more special. While we cook with the desire for a good taste and the hope to emulate the abilities of our mothers we will always fall short. A mother cooks like everyone else save one ingredient, love. A mother cooks not to impress, not for glory not for experimentation nor for shear sustenance. A Mother cooks with love to feed the heart and souls of her family and with every loving stir of the pot and every spice whispered into the mix she infuses her love. That is why a mother’s cooking is always best. Ah for the day I eat once more from my mother’s hand.