WHEN I started my journey into food over seven years ago, I was driven by a quest to find authenticity. Though that may have been my purpose at the time, I knew that it was merely the first step of the journey I was on. Slowly I learned that finding the true flavour of home is sometimes merely a memory evoked by a scent, flavour, or a recreation of a recipe, rather than the sum of all its parts. As I cooked more recipes from home that reminded me of a treasured memory – now using British ingredients I did not grow up with in Pakistan – I could still surprisingly, taste the flavour of home.

This got me thinking about whether that elusive word "authenticity" matters that much. In a world filled with questions of genuineness, belonging and a need for appropriation, is this quest pointless? I have been fuelled by long chats with people who began their food writing careers much like me, in search of identity and a sense of home. Some of the great food icons such as Madhur Jaffrey and Claudia Roden, whom I have been fortunate to work with closely, all look upon the word "authenticity" with slight disdain. Their sentiments resonate mine – authenticity is in a personal memory, one’s own recollection or experience of flavour – not merely a specific recipe.

There is much to be said about traditional recipes of course, which demand respect, but there are so many ways of creating a recipe. Look at the basic recipe for Scottish stovies for instance, I haven’t ever eaten the same stovies at one Scottish person’s home I have visited. I think it's safe to say that many core traditional recipes are used as inspiration to evolve a recipe, the memory of which might be authentic to the creator, and I think that is what matters. No-one owns a recipe – it is merely a guideline for creating individual flavour, representative of a person’s culinary journey. Who are we to judge what is authentic for each individual?

When we try to recreate a heritage recipe in another country, so many factors change it, such as availability of ingredients or produce – sometimes we are forced to substitute or reinvent ways to create a basic recipe, therefore creating a new recipe, based on a traditional one. This to me is the beauty of cooking, and as a migrant to new lands, this is my way of finding home away from home.

Being curious about the origins of dishes should be the basis of culinary discovery, but not a reason to limit self-growth and creativity. By all means, cook the recipes you feel represent your memory, but, of course, everyone’s memories are different and so no two dishes are ever alike. In conclusion, I have realised that authentic cannot mean timeless, otherwise no recipe would modify, and as the world evolves, so do recipes. I know I will never forget the flavour memories I grew up with, but it might be time to be less precious about flavour appropriation and enjoy food for what it is – a true celebration of home, local produce and feeding the ones we love.

Wild garlic, purple kale and feta parathas

A recipe that is based on, dare I say it, an authentic South Asian flatbread recipe, but here I have used Scottish seasonal wild garlic (ramson) which you can forage now, and purple kale which I got from my veg box this week. Two ingredients I never cooked with in Pakistan, but the memory of my grandmother’s cooking still resonates as I made these this week – the memory of the process, was enough.

For the filling:

60 grams crumbled feta cheese

1 tsp dry roasted cumin

Salt to taste

1 tbsp fresh coriander leaves, chopped finely

1 small hot green chilli, thinly sliced

1 tbsp dill leaves, chopped finely

1 tbsp finely chopped purple kale

For the paratha dough:

2 cups plain flour / all purpose

½ cup whole-wheat flour

½ tsp sea salt

1 – 2 tbsp oil or ghee, for frying

Flour, for dusting

To make filling:

Combine all ingredients in a bowl, keep aside

For the paratha:

Prepare the paratha dough by adding the flours and salt in a mixing bowl, slowly add tepid water until the flour comes together and knead on a floured surface until you have a soft dough. Place back in the bowl, pour a little oil over the dough and rub all over to avoid it getting stuck to the bowl. Cover and let it rest for 15 minutes.

To make the parathas and fill them, take a tennis ball size of dough, roll out into a small circle with the help of some flour on the surface. The middle part should be thicker than the outer part. Place about 2 tbsp of filling in your hand and make into a ball, then place in middle of the dough and bring together all the sides in the centre and seal tightly, but gently. Flatten slightly with your hands and then roll out the filled dough into a paratha while dusting with dry flour. The paratha should be about 1-2 mm thin and round.

Heat a non-stick pancake pan or griddle and fry the paratha, on either side using little ghee/oil/butter. Cook each side until light brown on either side. (about 5-6 minutes, pressing down the sides with a spatula all the time). Serve hot with yogurt or mint chutney.