My mum’s signature dish, and the one we loved the most, was what we called salt chicken. As with all domestic dishes, the joy my brother and I derived from it was as much about its familiarity and ritual as its taste.

It is a very simple thing but, like all simple things, its success relies on experience and confidence. In the big oval Pyrex dish, always the same one, my mother would pour simple, workaday rock salt in an even layer of about 1cm. On that she’d place a whole chicken – no trussing, no oil, no seasoning – and potatoes in their skins wrapped in foil. This went in the oven – I’m not sure at what temperature or for how long – and came out when the chicken was beautifully bronzed and a fork went through the potatoes easily.

It went straight to the table, where, this being in Israel, there would always be chopped salad. There was a knife with a brown handle and a broken tip for carving. We each had our favourite bits – wings for my brother, breast for me. The chicken was perfect every time – never dry, always juicy and flavourful, the skin incredibly crisp, especially around the edges, and with only tiny bits of the salt bed stuck to it. The potatoes we would cut in half, place a pat of butter and sometimes soured cream on top to melt, then crush in their skins with a fork for the fluffiest, most delicious, chunky mash.

I’m not sure what it is about roasting on a bed of salt. I’m sure other, more scientifically-minded chefs would be able to explain why it makes for such good roast chicken and potatoes – something to do, perhaps, with moisture absorption or retention, or with heat reflection or circulation – but I find that whole approach unappetising in the extreme, and boring, and missing the point, which is that nothing is quite like the food a mother makes. Science cannot explain that; it is the realm of alchemy, the most ancient human magic.

I’ve never made salt chicken myself, and I don’t think my mum has made it since we left home. Over the coming weeks, your inbox will be filled with reminders that you need to celebrate your mum and ideas on how to do it – brunches, hampers, spas. My plan for this Mother’s Day is to make salt chicken with her, find out where she learned about it (a tip from a friend, a recipe in a magazine?) and see if it tastes as good as I remember and, if the memories come flooding back, if I can pick up some of the nuances and tricks, and capture some of that magic.

This may feel more like a gift to myself than to her, but I know she will love it, because the thing about my mum and, I suspect, most mothers is that what they always enjoy and can never have enough of is time with us, their kids.

Hungry for sun | We thought we were so smart trading the late February gloom of London for the sunny skies of Sri Lanka. Little did we know how much of our hearts we would leave behind on that enchanted island – its people, culture and food had us head over heels and our love affair is only just beginning.

Snack hack | Jaffna House in Tooting, south London, is where we first encountered Sri Lankan food, and it is still a favourite of ours. After getting our fill of their “short eats”, we stop at Elaka Food City to stock up on supplies.

An appetite for reading | Books are our favourite mode of transport – on our bedside table, we have Shehan Karunatilaka’s The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida and Michael Ondaatje’s Running in the Family on the go, and in the kitchen we have a very splattered copy of Hoppers: The Cookbook – co-founder Karan Gokani is the best teacher we could ask for.

Home sweet home | We are so lucky to have great restaurants on our doorstep. A meal at London’s Brunswick House lifted our spirits, as it always does; the food is delicious, exciting and comforting, and made us feel glad to be home.