Sitting in an air-conditioned restaurant in Subang Jaya last Sunday, I thought the food I grew up with – the palappam, putu, with coconut sambal and sardine peratal – tasted delicious, but the atmosphere was all wrong.

There are no sounds of family members talking over each other, no scratchy radio blasting Hindi music, filling the space to kickstart the day.

Instead, my mind drifts straight back to my grandmothers’ house in Segamat, Johor.
My grandparents were from Kerala, belonging to that resilient, silent generation that migrated with nothing but their traditions, completely unaccustomed to the modern luxuries we hoard today.
Back then, breakfast wasn’t about choosing from a crowded fridge packed tight with weeks of plastic-wrapped vegetables and boxes or cereal.

In fact, the refrigerator they finally got was a small luxury item – an alien concept for a generation who grew up without one. They barely used it.

There was just a tiny, hissing fridge that sat mostly empty, sometimes holding nothing but a single, lonely bottle of strawberry jam.

On most days, the butter they used was tinned Golden Churn, stored away in the shaded shelves of a cool meat-safe, together with dry ingredients, pickles and condiments.

Ingredients for their morning breakfast were bought fresh from the local market at daybreak, and cooked that very same morning.

The heart of that semi-open air kitchen, with large ventilation grilles, lived in the heavy, distinct aroma of a clay stoves fueled by coal and burning coconut husks. The air was thick with that earthy, organic and distinct aroma, a fragrance that meant home.

The flavors of this breakfast I had took me straight down memory lane. It was great!

Yet, the sterile, commercial surroundings reminded me that while you can easily move a recipe into a modern restaurant, you can never replicate the soul of a morning when family gathered around the table – to laugh, talk, fight, joke, tease and feast.