Throughout my childhood, I lived in one state, with parents who hailed from another state, among people who hailed from most of India’s many states. This combination of circumstances, I am afraid, has left me in equal states of confidence and confusion.
For ages I believed that every woman in the world placed as much emphasis on food as my mother did, and that every man appreciated home cooking as much as my father did. In the kitchen of my childhood, food was sparse but sacred. Although money was tight, there was never a short supply of delicious and nourishing food — often involving leftovers, makeovers, old recipes, new experiments and a hastily-borrowed ingredient or two.
We ate fresh food and we ate seasonally. My brother and I strapped weekly groceries on to our bicycles. Milk and vegetables were delivered home, daily, and meat was booked weekly. In the summer my mother grew her own lettuce, and in the monsoon we ate an assortment of fried stuff she had dried in the summer. There were several specialties for special occasions, but mostly, my lovely mother stayed tuned in to Mother Nature. In our tiny little town, we also had wonderful ways with sharing food. Fresh produce was parcelled in from many gardens. Every festival (and there were many) came with hampers of festal foods and iconic treats. Visits involved at least two snacks, so a day in one neighbourhood often featured fare from a dozen lands.
As I grew older, all this gave me wings. I learnt my way around many kitchens — helping my mother and everyone else’s, borrowing their recipes and making up my own.
My advantage is this: I can eat almost anything that anyone has cooked. I don’t need to ask what went into it because I can almost always guess. Kitchens make me happy; making food fulfils me.
But my dilemma runs thus: I have no idea whatsoever what my favourite childhood food is. Is it cinnamon rice porridge on a cold day or cold chicken salad, fish cooked in mustard sauce or meat cooked with lentils, bread baked on a hob or bread pudding steamed in a pressure cooker?
If I am what I eat, well, then I am everyone.
— The author is grateful to her late parents for her grounding in good food, but deems them liable for her odd cravings for anarsis, achappams and asparagus pickle.
