This New Year, if there’s one food resolution we’re getting behind, it’s this: document, document, document. Too many traditional recipes have slipped into the “forgotten” or “little known” category. One way to slow that loss is to record your own family recipes—by speaking to the generation before us, asking questions, and coaxing out those closely held kitchen secrets. Here, chef Rajat Mendhi does exactly that, sharing a tried-and-tested recipe — and a method — for you to do the same.

One night before bed, Jaydeep, my partner asked me a puzzling question. “Do you know white and black aloo?”

We were in our bedroom, finishing our usual night-time routine. “White and black aloo?” I laughed. “That’s not how anyone describes food.”

He was serious. He could taste it in his mind.

I ran through all the aloo dishes I knew, in my head. I asked, “Do you mean that aloo we make with lots of dhaniya powder?” But I knew it wasn’t. That dish was golden yellow, not white and black. Jaydeep shook his head. “No, no. This one’s different. It has hing, lots of amchur and maybe other masalas. We used to have it for breakfast when I was growing up.” We weren’t able to figure it out, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

We do this often; try to recall the food we grew up eating and then make it for each other. I don’t know what it is about food, but it tells the best stories of who we are and where we come from.

The next morning, I woke up knowing exactly what it was. Or close enough. Not a work of genius; I remembered that, just like Jaydeep’s mum, my mum made a white & black aloo. I still don’t know what it’s called, but this is roughly what it is: Boiled aloo stir-fried with jeera, lots of coarsely ground roasted dhaniya powder, a touch of hing, lots of amchur and fresh dhaniya to finish. Think samosa filling, but subtler. We had it with phulkas for breakfast. It hit the spot.

As a chef, nostalgia is my favourite exploration. Bombay Picnics was born from that — a way to share the foods I grew up eating, told through stories, communal tables, private dining, and home delivery.

Like with the white and black aloo, I’ve tried recreating dishes from memory, piecing together the smells and tastes of the food my mum and my family made. Many times, a quick call or a voice note from my mum helped guide me through the ingredients and process. The dish turns out good, but it’s never as I remember it.

I often wonder, is my mum hiding a trick, a step, an ingredient, like many cooks do? Or is it just difficult to communicate what really is muscle memory — the intuitive knowledge of what the right quantities and steps are. Something the holders of family recipes just know, because they’ve been cooking that same beloved dish for decades.