It works in harmony with the seasonal surplus and has genuinely wonderful options for feasting, like Törggelen, a peculiarly Südtirolean tradition specific to Autumn that had its roots in farmers and wine merchants meeting to sample young wine. You typically trek for an hour or two till you arrive at a Buschenschank, a traditional farmhouse inn, then you park yourself at a table and eat.

You begin with Schlutzkrapfen, a kind of ravioli with rye flour and regular flour, filled with spinach, followed by dumplings (Knödel), salted meats, home-made sausages, and sauerkraut. You conclude with Krapfen — sweet pastries, and roasted chestnuts. I love this tradition, and I love the Autumn-ness of it, the nip in the air, the scent of roasting chestnuts and young wine.

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Since I first forayed into learning German by making my way through the classic So Kocht Südtirol (So Cooks Südtirol), various elements of the cuisine have become extremely familiar to me. I have no difficulty reading a menu because, in all likelihood, I now know what goes into the dish. I'm sometimes able to perceive a chef's ingenuity because I can see how they've paired two entirely different dishes and somehow harmonised them; like a deer medallion with Bratapfel (a cored apple baked until dehydrated with cranberry jam and butter).

Or, for example, when my father-in-law makes Fleischsuppe (a meat broth), using carrots and celery, I know that the next logical meal will be a Bauern-Gröstl, which my partner makes lovingly. You take the chunk of tender meat that has flavoured the broth, chop it up and stir-fry it with some herbs, and with slices of boiled potato. The potato acquires a golden crispy edge when fried separately and then added to the meat. It's delicious, and it reminds me of something my mother makes.

Or when I see Pfifferlinge (chanterelle mushrooms) in the fridge, given to my father-in-law by a friend of his who would have foraged for them, I know they'll make for a great risotto. In terms of the culinary, I see myself as having 'settled' in. I know that in less than two years I will have mastered this kitchen.

However, I didn't anticipate how fundamentally I would miss my Goan kitchen. Living in Delhi, I did feel exiled from our native cuisine, but each time I visited Goa, I'd bring back with me a bottle of vinegar, kokum, tamarind, chillies, jaggery, and all kinds of other spices, so that I was able to make anything I craved, from a Cafreal to a Vindaloo, to a Caldin, or a regular prawn curry. I had my Avanti coconut scraper and had even acquired a koyta.

Here, in Südtirol, I feel so at sea. On Wednesday, when I couldn't withstand the soul-craving any longer, I gave in and decided to make a Caldin curry with prawns. With store-bought coconut milk, I improvised my way around the recipe, with whatever was at my disposal — curry powder, paprika instead of chilli powder, etc. and worked my way around the situation. I kept some prawns aside to fry them like my father does, sprinkling the bread crumbs over the prawns, instead of coating each one individually (this makes for a crunchier prawn).

I cooked selfishly even though I was preparing dinner for my father-in-law and partner. I had only my pleasure in mind. I didn't think about how I should have peeled the prawns. I took it for granted that I would eat with my hands. Just that whiff of coconut cream was enough to salve my intense homesickness. It was nowhere close to the best Caldin I've ever made, but it was the most comforting, given the circumstances.

I'm evolving a repository of what I call "displaced" menus, that are the result of synthesising my cravings with the inability to source ingredients integral to Goan food. I'm learning firsthand how to conjure the presences of the people I love most, especially my parents, by exercising my culinary acumen. It's the beginning of something possibly profound.

Deliberating on the life and times of Everywoman, Rosalyn D'Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx
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The views expressed in this column are the individual's and don't represent those of the paper

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