I was a sickly lad. “The runt of the litter” my dad would often say. It was true that my three older siblings were much bigger than me, but that seemed reasonable enough given their extra years of growth. But I was half the size of my twin sister and easily the smallest in school. The doctor said it was on account of my asthma. That didn’t make me feel a whole lot better.

I wasn’t small because I didn’t eat. I had the appetite of a horse (ask my mum). But when I was having difficulty breathing, food was hard to swallow.

I needed comforting (and I sure needed to grow). Behold… my mother’s cooking. Even at its most simple, it was like being covered in a warm blanket of love. None more so than this recipe, my most comforting of culinary memories.

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