It was simple – a fresh tomato and diced onion with some salt. But it was so much more than that. I remember nani (grandma) making it so many times before.

There were no measurements. There never were. I remembered asking how she measured her ingredients for her recipes, especially my favourite – tin fish curry. She whipped out a large wooden spoon and used it to point to her head. 

It was all feel.

She sliced the tomato unevenly and cut the green chilli from her garden with a pair of clothing scissors. I recalled it clearly as I plated my version of the dish on a paper plate in the outdoor kitchen of the farm I was staying. No green chilli on hand, unfortunately.

When I sat down to eat, I teased some of the chutney onto my fork and brought it to my mouth. The sweet juice covered my tongue before the acidity of the tomato and onion cut through. The salt tickled my tastebuds and lingered there. I ate more, tasting the memory. 

We were on other sides of the world. I was in Gabriola Island, Canada, and she was back home in Prestons, Sydney, Australia. But in this moment I was home, and she was sitting there with me at the table, sharing our history.