It started with a question
My grandfather pressed his own groundnut oil every season. He had a small wooden ghani in the courtyard — a heavy wooden press turned by a bullock, slow and patient. The oil that came out was golden, thick with flavour, and smelled like something alive. We used it for everything.
When he passed away, the ghani was sold. We started buying oil from the shop like everyone else. For years, I didn't think about it. Then one evening I was making my mother's recipe — the same dish she'd made every Sunday — and something was missing. The oil had no smell. The dish had no depth. The ingredient was technically the same. But it wasn't the same at all.