Award-winning author, Meera Ekkanath Klein, deftly weaves her love of cooking and story-telling into an irresistible tale. My Mother’s Kitchen: A novel with recipes (2014, Homebound Publications) was selected as a Winner in the 2015 International Book Awards in the Multi-Cultural Fiction category. The book was also selected as Finalist in the 2015 National Indie Excellence Book Awards and in 2015 Beverly Hills International Book Awards, both in the Multi-Cultural Fiction category. She was one of 40 authors at the celebrated 2015 Authors on the Move fundraiser for the Sacramento Library Foundation dinner and auction. She was featured on Capital Public Radio on April 2, 2015 and interviewed by host Beth Ruyak.
Meera Ekkanath KleinThe catalyst for My Mother's Kitchen was tragedy. My mother died in 2007 and I always wanted to write a tribute to her. A year later I joined a writin…moreThe catalyst for My Mother's Kitchen was tragedy. My mother died in 2007 and I always wanted to write a tribute to her. A year later I joined a writing group and the group decided to publish a small magazine featuring work by members of the group. So I decided to do a piece about my mother and my memories of growing up in her kitchen. It seemed natural to add a recipe at the end of the piece. The piece "Mother's Lemon Rice" was very popular and everyone kept asking me if I was going to write more stories about life in my mother's kitchen. The first piece was auto-biographical but I changed the focus of book from myself to fiction. "My Mother's Kitchen" was easy to write and I finished it less than a year.(less)
Meera Ekkanath KleinIt cures everything, the man insisted, as he watched me gulp down the glass of what looked like empty air. Better, he asked, watching me carefully bec…moreIt cures everything, the man insisted, as he watched me gulp down the glass of what looked like empty air. Better, he asked, watching me carefully because that spider piss is the best cure-all.(less)
My father’s funeral took place on the outskirts of a mango orchard belonging to our uncle Ramachandran. Once the last of the smoke from the funeral pyre faded into the tropical evening, it was time for the ritual bath. My mother led the way to the pool. The mossy stones were cool beneath my feet. The three of us waded into the tepid water, holding hands. That water washed away our tea