I captured you here in an unscripted moment that sums ups how you loved to love. Between the kitchen, the garden and the dining table you were fearlessly generous with it and abundance for us. You were the most grounded of my grandmothers, the most Asian, the most Burmese. I will always remember your pokey little kitchen where you cooked the meals we treasured. Mohinga with banana bark that your garden always gave, chicken biryani whose oil was the fear of drycleaners and the moth deterring–fly attracting balachaung you fried into red glitter on the back porch. It was from here I learnt to explore the story of food – a story we all share binding us now as family. I always saw you as a great maker of foods. Of mounds of chilli and coriander splitting dry in the sun, burping jars of green mango fermenting into pickle. Of all wonderfully curious textures of cuisine you had stored in your mind and recreated from Mandalay. When I was a child your garden filled me with endless exploration and your kitchen endless experimentation, “What’s that plant Nana – where did it come from, how do we cook it, what’s it good for?” My questions were endless as much as your patience to answer them.

It was from you I learnt the love of growing things, to flex with the seasons, the chaos and cascade of food from the kitchen to the table and open arms of hospitality to welcome family and friends.

Yours was a simple approach for life: to nurture, to be kind, to show respect and to give fearlessly. I hope I can do you proud.