I still can't eat jollof rice the way my mother used to make it, and it's been 3 years

My mother's jollof rice had this smell that would reach you before you even entered the compound. The kind of smell that made you forget whatever nonsense you were angry about that day. I used to think she had some secret ingredient she was hiding from me.

She didn't. I watched her cook it a hundred times. Same pot, same rice, same pepper. But mine never tastes the same. Not even close. I called her one Sunday to ask what I was doing wrong and she just laughed and said 'my hand is different from your hand.'

I still don't know what that means. But I think about it every time I try to make it. Maybe some things just belong to the person who made them. Maybe that's the whole point.