I was my mother’s (unwilling) sous-chef for years. She had to drag me — kicking and screaming — into the kitchen to chop vegetables, make rice and learn the spice blends that went into aromatic Bengali cuisine. After she passed away, I remember standing in the kitchen and wanting to sob, because Ma was no longer there to tell me where to start or what to do next, and I would’ve given anything to hear her voice just one more time.