My Family Recipe

My Grandmother Taught Me Everything, So I Made Her Pizza

July  3, 2018

Good food is worth a thousand words—sometimes more! In My Family Recipe, a writer shares the story of a single dish they've inherited, and why it's meaningful to them.

Photo by Danie Drankwalter

She eyed the plate in front of her suspiciously, poking at the dough with her fork. “Just pick it up with your hands!” I instructed. “It’s pizza.”

“Pi-zza,” she repeated, sounding out long Zs in the word. She took a slice in her fingertips, blew on it a few times to cool it, and bit into the narrowest tip of the triangle. “Mmm!” She paused, savoring what she’d just tried. She went in for another bite. “It’s very good. It’s...something different.”

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My grandma, or Ammama, as she’s known to family and loved ones, is the matriarch of a third-generation Singaporean family. The eldest child of five, her mother a mere nineteen years her senior, Ammama was called upon to help raise her siblings. She went on to bring up four children of her own and, unofficially, countless others, as she taught English in the local primary school and eventually became its headmistress.

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“Thanks for sharing the beautiful story about your Ammama. <3”
— Hana A.

On the weekends, she would teach paattu (Carnatic classical singing), her truest passion, second only to cooking. Her home—the very home my mother grew up in, and the one I continue to visit to this day—would be abuzz with students of all ages, toting along their parents, children, or housekeepers. Ammama relished in offering them a meal, from the simple rasam, dal, or the creamy yogurt pachadi her family was having for lunch that day, to the more more elaborate fried pakoras or crispy, buttery murukku, or piping hot potato and pea–filled curry puffs whipped up on the spot. These were usually accompanied by spiced chai and a long chat, my grandmother dispensing thoughtful wisdom as easily as she offered these snacks. Ammama perfected the art of feeding a small army, and feeding them well.

Most of my grandmother’s recipes were scrawled down in cheap kraft paper notebooks as she was cooking them, or transcribed by one of my aunts or great-aunts who wanted to know how to make a dish, Ammama reciting it from memory. The inexactitude of these recipes is both charming and perplexing: one ball of tamarind; enough rice flour to soak up the liquid; fry until it smells deep. Yet they produce magnificent results to all who attempt them—just maybe not as good as how she’d have done it.

When I was 8 or 9, I remember hearing my mother troubleshooting her sped-up recreations of these dishes over long-distance calls with Ammama. My mom would reach her early in the morning, Singapore time, to find out what spice she didn’t roast for long enough or what type of noodle she should’ve bought to approximate the ones found in Ammama’s local market. The dishes seemed so complex and otherworldly—entirely beyond my capabilities at that point, having mastered pasta and scrambled eggs just a few months prior. I’d eat my fill of mee goreng, satay, rojak, and nasi lemak during long summer visits to Singapore, only vaguely remembering them during the nine months that followed.

But in the summer between my ninth and tenth grade, Ammama came to stay with us, hauling suitcases full of sauces and sambals, fermented soybeans and special seasonings. With no access to a car, and little to nothing to do in suburban Orange County, we’d spend mornings preparing meals together and evenings taking long walks on horse trails and around culs-de-sac. I dutifully chopped, squeezed, blended, and awaited further instruction from her, never actually cooking anything myself—she didn’t dare trust me with that, scolding me every time I attempted to stir or swish.

But with high-powered, full-time working parents and an affinity for cooking from a young age, I’d been on my own in the kitchen for several years at that point. Cooking allowed me to feel creative and independent, even if I had to work hard at it—exercising patience and accepting the occasional failure along the way. Ammama’s cooking seemed so second-nature to her, and I wanted to learn it all. Her creations used ingredients I’d seen my entire life, but I had no inkling of how to approach them; I just took for granted that they somehow ended up in the final dish, adding an unknown oomph. Since she hardly referred to any recipe, it was astonishing how she knew exactly how much of this sauce or that spice or those chiles would make the dish whole.

I wanted to understand the ease with which she moved through the kitchen.

More than the recipes themselves, I wanted to understand the ease with which Ammama moved through the kitchen, and the care and finesse involved in preparing each element of the meal—slowly layering flavors, stirring a single paste for what felt like hours, never cutting corners to maximize the food’s potential. I’d scribble in my mom’s half-empty kraft notebook every time we completed a dish, certain I’d never be able to make it on my own. Ammama’s cooking style represented an authority and strength, a resourcefulness, a streak of independence, and an assured sense of self that I—an awkward tween proverbially coming into my own—desperately longed to know. To me, especially at this point in life, the certainty and security with oneself that she exhibited seemed unachievable on many levels. I strived to better understand and maybe even one day assume that ease, and adopt that sense of care in everything I made from then on, if never to prepare meals of that complexity.

Many summers after Ammama came to live with us, I made the journey back to Asia, stopping first in Singapore for some nourishment. At that stage, I was considering leaving New York for good (or at least for a while), fully immersed in a career transition but confused about the direction in which I was headed—generally, at an impasse in my life. I hoped that returning to my roots would offer me some comfort, and the space to freely and independently explore my surroundings and thoughts. But no matter how hard I tried to be independent, especially in the kitchen, it was not in Ammama’s protective, nurturing nature to let me.

She or her housekeeper would prepare roasted red pepper bisque, dosas with tomato or coconut chutney, light noodle soups with spring rolls or a tomato, cucumber, and pineapple salad. I rarely found myself in Ammama’s airy, half-outdoor kitchen, knowing that if I tried, she or the housekeeper would ask me what exactly I was searching for from the pantry, or if they could help me prepare what I was craving.

It took some weeks for Ammama and I to adjust to each other’s constant presence, but when we did, we fell naturally into a rhythm akin to our relationship during my childhood. We partook in early morning market trips to source vegetables, fruits, and steamed buns or zongzi (stuffed glutinous rice dumplings); breakfasts side-by-side, while reading the Straits Times; teatime with snacks at 4 p.m.; long walks at twilight after early dinners. Ammama was accustomed to living alone, single-minded, and generally unswayed from her routine, so instead of trying to cultivate my own world, I adapted to fit her schedule. But I didn’t mind. At least at the start of my trip, it was nice to be taken care of.

One afternoon, during our teatime snack, Ammama turned to me.

“What do you want for dinner? Do you want to make something?”

“Sure! What would you like to eat?” I said, taken aback.

“Surprise me.”

I racked my brain, thinking of what I could make that she might like. I surveyed the fridge, spotting staples like an eggplant, some green bell peppers, a couple of red onions. In the pantry were some red pepper flakes and canned button mushrooms—fresh ones are seldom grown on the island, and imports can be costly. I figured I could craft these into some sort of spicy vegetable dish with penne or spaghetti. I’d brought from the US a few bottles of pasta sauce and some part-skim, low-moisture shredded mozzarella, because cheese is also prohibitively expensive on the island. But pasta itself was nowhere to be found. What else could I do with these Italian-adjacent ingredients and no noodly bed? Rifling through the cupboards again, I found a brand-new container of instant yeast, and knew pizza—my favorite food, incidentally—was the real answer. It’s always the answer. Bobby Flay’s pizza dough recipe, my tried and true when I’m short on time, would work wonderfully. I’d long since committed it to memory.

As I began assembling the ingredients for the dough, Ammama pottered about in the kitchen, looking over my shoulder to ask about proportions and flavoring agents. In one of her giant cast-iron woks, I prepared a quick stir fry-style saute of the eggplant, onions, and slices of bell pepper, seasoning them with a healthy pinch of red pepper flakes and fresh garlic. I fussed when Ammama and her housekeeper tried to slice, stir, or rinse dishes, asserting my independence to confused and annoyed looks. I ignored them and went on.

After some minutes in the toaster oven (Singapore kitchens rarely have built-in ovens), one pizza was ready, and in went another. I placed it on a cutting board, and asked Ammama if she had any basil I could use for a garnish. She pointed me to a potted plant in her front yard with only a few, very young leaves. “Why don’t you put some kottamalli on it? It’ll taste good.” She brandished a leafy bunch of cilantro in her hand. Might as well give it a try.

I put a few slices on a plate in front of Ammama, anxiously anticipating her reaction. She asked for more red pepper flakes and some grated Parmesan cheese that I’d also brought from home. Becoming full, but reluctant to stop eating, she grabbed one more slice, cut it in half, and asked me to put the rest in a Tupperware to save for lunch tomorrow. I noted that she didn’t share it, as she normally would, when family came around for tea the next day. This was the truest mark of success.

During the rest of my stay in Singapore, Ammama asked for this very pizza no fewer than three times, and repeatedly pressed me for the recipe. “Coin-sized” scoops of yeast or “half-tumblers” of flour wouldn’t work here, so the final time I made it, I wrote down the ingredients in her recipe book, calculating on my phone metric measurements based on the volumetric ones I’d been using. Theoretically, she could make it whenever she wanted. Her toaster oven, surprisingly, worked like a charm.

The dynamic Ammama and I have in the kitchen—where she’s the provider, caretaker, and nurturer—makes me feel okay about temporarily relinquishing my independence. Exhibiting the confidence I’ve gained in my cooking feels less satisfying than the love and care that only Ammama can provide. And while I can now recreate her innovative, labor-intensive recipes myself, I know how much it means to her to make them for me. I think she feels the same way when I cook for her. To my knowledge, she hasn’t made the pizza since I left.

To Drizzle Over Any Pizza...

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Brinda is the Director of Content at Food52, where she oversees all site content across Food52 and Home52. She likes chewy Neapolitan pizza, stinky cheese of all sorts, and tahini-flavored anything. Brinda lives in Brooklyn with 18 plants and at least one foster pup (sometimes more). Find her at @brindayesterday on Twitter and Instagram.


Tracey M. July 18, 2018
Loved reading this piece. Like you, I became interested in cooking fairly young. Unfortunately, I didn't get much time to cook with my grandmothers, although I do have some special memories of the foods they would make. My daughter doesn't have a strong love of cooking, so I hope to someday be the grandmother in the kitchen with a grandchild, sharing recipes and making memories.
Brinda A. July 20, 2018
Thanks for the kind words and for sharing, Tracey.
Joycelyn July 8, 2018
Lovely story, your Grandmother sounds to be a real gem. How lucky you were being able to learn, cook and even teach along side her. It reminds me of my Grandmother in a way, who although a very stern rarely smiling woman who'd never allow myself and sibling to help her in the kitchen, let alone be in her kitchen very long, would when knowing we were coming to visit, bake an extra long loaf of bread then slice the entire top and bottom crust off the still very warm loaf and serve them to my sibling and I slathered in butter and her home made version of cheddar cheese spread. So so good, and still to this day 60 plus years later one of my most cherished childhood memories.
Brinda A. July 9, 2018
Joycelyn, thank you so much for sharing this touching memory. A warm loaf, soft butter, and cheddar cheese spread definitely says "love" to me! Would love to get that spread recipe, by the way...
Tyler K. July 4, 2018
Brinda A. July 6, 2018
Thanks for reading!!
Nisbeth A. July 4, 2018
I loved this article - the beautiful writing resonated with me. It painted a vivid, verbal picture. I could see those kitchens in Singapore and America and the grandmother and granddaughter being together in those spaces. One day, I hope to write about my own culinary heritage with such charm. Brinda - I would be flattered if you spared a few moments to look at some of my recipes on
Brinda A. July 6, 2018
Thank you so much for your kind words, Nisbeth.
Renuka A. July 4, 2018
A touching tribute to your grandma!
Brinda A. July 4, 2018
Thanks, mom :)
Nikkitha B. July 4, 2018
Hi Brinda's mom!
Renuka A. July 4, 2018
Hi Nikkitha, Brinda has told me lots of wonderful things about you and the Food52 team👏
Eric K. July 4, 2018
I may go out and buy a can of mushrooms right now—after I wipe these tears, that is.
Hana A. July 3, 2018
"...she grabbed one more slice, cut it in half, and asked me to put the rest in a Tupperware to save for lunch tomorrow." >> The ultimate compliment! Thanks for sharing the beautiful story about your Ammama. <3
Brinda A. July 4, 2018
Thanks for reading, Hana!