The person who taught me to cook was my father, which surprises a lot of people because in Bangladesh it's usually mothers or grandmothers who do that. My mother worked long shifts as a nurse in Chattogram, so Baba did most of the cooking at home.
He started teaching me when I was about fourteen, mainly because I'd complained that I was bored during the summer holidays. He said, "Fine, then you can be my assistant," and that was that. For the first few weeks I wasn't allowed to cook anything. I just chopped onions, washed rice and watched. He insisted that I learn to wash rice properly, rinsing it until the water ran clear, because he said bad rice ruins a good curry.
The first proper dish he taught me was a simple dal with lentils, turmeric and a tempering of garlic and dried chilli fried in oil and poured over at the end. After that we moved on to fish curry, which is the real test in our family. I burned the spices three times before I got it right, and he made me eat every failed attempt.
I feel incredibly lucky to have learned from him. Now that I'm studying in Dhaka and living in a hostel, I'm one of the few people on my floor who can cook a decent meal, so I've become quite popular at dinner time. More than that, though, those hours in the kitchen were when we actually talked. He told me stories about his childhood that I'd never heard before. Whenever I make that dal now, it reminds me of him, and I think that's the best thing a recipe can do.