My parents’ divorce was amicable – and yet it was odd to watch my father adjust to living by himself for the first time in his life. We spent every Monday with him. Food was odd. He was, in theory, a good cook, but not used to cooking for three grumpy children with specific demands. On Monday night we cooked, by accident, our signature dish in a process of father-daughter bonding. What connected us was our haphazard but enthusiastic attitude towards spices. What we created – chicken in a yogurt-cinnamon sauce, became a stable for a while. Our attitude towards food has stayed the same, an affection for comfort food and shared meals where the conversation is more important than the meal.