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

