The smell of fish blood filled my nostrils and when I tasted it, I suddenly knew how Ma could cook according to her emotions. The taste of fish was the taste of hatred, pure and simple. I could not connect it to anything else. This was how it must have started; this is the only way Ma knew how to speak to the world. When she said anything else, nobody listened. Her stories and her feelings and her intentions had to be conveyed through spices and recipes, sauces, oils and meats.