My mother was many things, but perhaps most of all, she was a wonderful cook. I would even dare call her a chef, but I think that requires credentials beyond the admiration of friends and family.

Meticulous in her detail, she maintained numerous handwritten recipe books, complete with thumb tabs.

When she died nearly nine years ago, most of the books mysteriously disappeared. I suspect foul play, but that is a family matter that will one day come out in the wash. Still, I wish I could get my hands on some of those recipes because the cook is gone.

Sadly, I don't have the skills of my mother, nor my wife for that matter. I have mastered just three dishes through midlife, but each is a masterpiece, if I dare say so myself.

I make a mean pot of Portuguese bean soup, gigantic popovers the envy of all, and a Caesar salad that would make Caesar himself blush.

So my daughter would not be left wanting, as I have been since my mother's death, I decided to hand down the recipe (and the art) of the Perfect Caesar Salad. Her apprenticeship started three years ago, when she was just 7.

The first year was about memorizing the ingredients and the movements. In her second year she made salads by herself, but only under my direct supervision. I released her from the Caesar Salad Institute after her third year of study. I demanded only two things:

"Keep it secret, keep it safe."

A good Caesar requires the precise balance of nine fresh ingredients, but to raise this simple salad to high art requires the discipline of an alchemist and the addition of a 10th ingredient: the soul.

After the ingredients are gathered, the performance begins. Like David Copperfield, the real magic happens on stage. Our mixing bowl is used for the Caesar salad and nothing else.

When mixing the dressing, the bowl is turned, never the spoon. And the extra-virgin olive oil is slowly drizzled in; not poured.

I recently sat down to dinner and an expertly plated Caesar salad. I pierced several delicately coated strips of romaine and marveled at the even distribution of dressing, noted the finely crushed garlic, and breathed in the gentle aroma of anchovy.

I took a bite and looked at her, knowing that I was in the presence of genius. She looked at me the way only a 10-year-old can and then asked, "Do you taste something different?"

I looked at her quizzically and she smiled from ear to ear.

"What is it?" I asked.

But she shook her head from side to side and giggled. "Can't tell you, I'm keeping it secret, keeping it safe."

Suddenly my world came crashing in on me. It was one thing to long for my mother's recipes, but this twisted fate was more than I could bear.

I begged and pleaded, but she would not cave in.

I suppose that is the way of the world; recipes get handed down and change over the years to suit the taste of the chef. But all is not lost. The only way to eat Mom's food is to get my hands on her recipes and try to replicate her magic; unlikely on both accounts. But not so for my daughter. She may never reveal her secret ingredient(s), but I have the sneaky suspicion that she will indulge my Caesar salad cravings.

In my daughter I have something better than the recipe. I have the chef.

Michael C. DeMattos is a member of the faculty at the University of Hawai'i School of Social Work. He lives in Kane'ohe with his wife, daughter, two dogs and two mice.