In the wizard’s lair Mariammachi rose with the sun – my Nana’s trusted right hand woman she cooked for a grateful household an enchantress with a culinary wand she could turn anything – the humble tapioca, the nondescript okra into Michelin star feasts. She would seat six year old me on the black volcanic rock of Nana’s hundred year old kitchen and I would study with wonder the paste of ash and water she scrubbed the clay pots with gutting …