"There is no sight on earth more appealing than the sight of a woman making dinner for someone she loves."

That quote is attributed to American writer Thomas Wolfe -- although the source isn’t important, it’s the idea behind the actual words that matters to me. In it there is an expression of an appreciation for the sensual aspect of the act of cookery. Within it lies the suggestion that preparing a meal can reveal the most amorous secrets of a tremendous bond between two people.

The notion that there is a connection between cooking and intimacy is hardly new. But the mark of a master chef is the devotion to cooking and eating as occasions for creation and recreation -- as opportunities to relish in pleasure rather than merely attend to the fundamental human needs of hunger and thirst. Food preparation has gone from essentiality to entertainment and will continue on that ardent route for those of us who delve into it with the utter abandon it deserves.

Sometimes I lie awake at night reading cookbooks: tempting myself with the innovative dishes I could make from both familiar and alien ingredients. To me these books contain all the pensive magnetism of a romance novel, vacation brochure and screenplay -- written in the seductive language of “sweating”, “kneading”, “searing”, “trussing” and “boning”. I gradually tick off components in my head, wondering what this and that might taste like together… this is wondrous to me. My fingers ache for the roughness of a wooden spoon and the weight of a cast iron skillet, even if my body is too tired to pull itself from my bed. The mere thought of tasting the velvet of melted dark chocolate or the ruddy freshness of raspberries keeps me awake at night sometimes. I dreamt the other night about that delightful tickle champagne gives and the heady bouquet of a robust Bordeaux.

Tasting curry for the first time left me breathless; I can summon the memory easily. I was six or seven and my mother was making dinner as I sat on the counter, enraptured. There were so many actions: slicing, dicing, pouring, mixing, broiling, seasoning… She pulled this mysterious green metal curry canister from the cupboard above the stove and I begged to know what it tasted like – she told me to lick my finger and dip it into the ochre-coloured powder. It looked like tiny flecks of golden topaz on my pale white skin and tasted like a diverse existence. The baby finger on my left hand should be all the colours of the rainbow from being stuck into a million different bottles, boxes and envelopes of marvelously coloured powders, liquids and other such concoctions since then. And from that day on all I wanted to do was cook – no, to create something utterly fantastic from food.

Feeling food come alive and develop beneath your bare hands is such an incredible sensation– you feel alive and in the moment. Creating something edible and delectable and beautiful from virtually nothing gives you a sense of power, a sense of accomplishment and the ambition to continue to do so. I recall making éclairs when I was twelve – the way the flour, water, eggs and butter miraculously changed into an elastic, succulent dough amazed me. I was also captivated with the sight and texture of the rather decadent custard that went in the middle. As I decanted the shimmering emulsion into the piping bag, I couldn’t help but to comment aloud, “Now this is incredible.” There was puzzled look from my brother at the time, who just wanted to eat the stuff, but if I recall correctly, my mother did give a tiny, perceptive smile.

I felt that same smile yesterday as I molded and kneaded the dough for the delicious saffron and black pepper pasta I made for dinner. The heady scent of the freshly cracked black pepper melding with the slightly solemn notes in the saffron attacked my senses as I cranked my pasta maker.