M
y nani stands over the
griddle, slight beads of
perspiration forming over
her brow from the heat of the stove.
She leans in to smell the egg chutney,
a classic south Indian dish, and
wrinkles her nose. Adding chopped
coriander to the concoction, she
sniffs again.
“Much better. You want it to have
flavor, you know?” she said, dropping
her rs and shortening her yous,
a consequence of having a semi-
British, semi-Indian accent. After
immigrating to England 46 years ago,
my grandma uses cooking as a way to
connect to the culture and people she
left behind. This mindset has been
passed down to my mom, and now to
my siblings and me.
Food is a big deal in my family.
Each member of my family knows
how to cook, whether it is chocolate
nachos
made
by
my
9-year-old
brother or tandoori chicken made by
my dad. Sunday dinners consisted of
“cook off” competitions between my
parents until they got too intense
and we had to cancel them to spare
hurting parent’s feelings. Cooking
carried too much weight for either
parent to simply dismiss the results
as part of a silly competition.
Every so often, my mom will
attempt to cook egg chutney. She uses
the same recipe as my nani, except
her dish always tastes different.
Instead of having the herby, rich feel
that is indicative of the East, hers
tastes lighter, healthier and plainer —
more within the confines of the West.
Here, the influences of her British
upbringing surface. Cooking seems
to be a place where people can assert
their individuality.
Yet at the same time, cooking is
a familial, communal experience.
On weekends, my entire family will
gather in our kitchen as my mom
and dad cook. We are never told to;
the kitchen just always seems to
exude warmth and inviting tones.
The
tempting
smells
don’t
hurt
either. When I was little, as I hovered
behind her in the kitchen, my mom
would tell me the names of the spices
she poured into the pot: tamarind,
chili powder, cumin and coriander.
I would recite the words back to her,
absorbing each syllable, each sound
as it rolled across my tongue. Despite
only having traveled to India once,
these words taught me of the East.
Growing up as a second-generation
American, I’ve found that much of
the “old” culture has been lost in
translation. I’m not fluent in the
language of my grandparents and I
only dress in traditional Indian attire
two or three times a year. However,
through food, I have found a link
to my culture. Food has satiated my
appetite for language, culture and
community.
When I finally learned how to cook,
it wasn’t through formal instruction.
I watched my parents sauté onions,
marinate chicken and sear fish —
picking up tips and tricks along
the way. After setting many dishes
on fire and cooking food drowned
in oil and/or deficient in flavor, I
finally invented my own dish: an
egg sandwich. It was a variation
of something my dad had whipped
up one lazy Sunday afternoon, but
included my own twist. I toast and
butter an English muffin, scramble an
egg, add Havarti cheese to the muffin
and then combine all the components
into my own little homemade brunch.
The process is time-consuming —
it takes much longer to make an egg
sandwich than it does to pour a bowl
of cereal. However, there is nothing
like hunching over a frying pan in the
morning while listening to the eggs
sizzle and feeling the sun shine on
your skin through the window in the
kitchen. On slow weekends and lazy
summer days, those rare days when
my family wears pajamas until 1:00
p.m., I might fight clutter, my siblings
and my parents for counter space to
assemble my creation, but it is those
days that I miss most now that I am
away at college.
It took me a long time to realize I
cook my eggs in the same style that my
mom and nani cook their egg chutney,
albeit a little more oily and flavored
only with half a pinch of salt. My egg
sandwich was an adaptation of what
my family has cooked for generations,
and I subconsciously included it in
my own “unique” recipe. It is never
possible to fully lose touch with
one’s culture, even if it is because of
something as fundamental as food.
In a world where assimilation is the
norm, food connects me to my roots.
Wednesday, March 28, 2018// The Statement
7B
Food for thought
BY ZAYNA SYED, DAILY STAFF REPORTER
ILLUSTRATION BY EMILY KOFFSKY