The sight of a bubbling pot of rasam. The smell of freshly washed cilantro resting on crisp aloo sabzi. The cool, sweet crunch of kesar pista kulfi. Ah! The irresistible power of food memories.
The rasam, aloo and kulfi sustained me through many a homesick night when I first arrived from India to the small town of Lancaster. I was 18 and impossibly lost. Surrounded by the lush beauty of the town around me, and the friendly chatter of my peers, I remained isolated by the accent of my Indian heritage.
During that confusing time, food memories became friends. Rasam was home. The pretty woman in the sky blue sari, waiting at the door, unabashedly happy at seeing us back from school, her silky black hair freshly washed and tied back in a towel. The crispy aloo was shared experiences. The Usain Bolt of all moms, picking up the hem of her sari, tucking it into her waistband, and smoking the living daylights out of the competition in the 100 m. sprint on sports day. l won silver but the sharp glint of gold in the warming sun took pride of place in our home. The kulfi was daring exploits. The mad scientist, sitting on the kitchen floor, surrounded by recipes and milk jars and piles of nuts and a determined look on her face. This was a home-made ice-cream experiment before the era of ice-cream makers.
What happens when golden food memories from an Indian childhood clash with cold pasta from the dorm cafeteria in Pennsylvania ? A new cook is born and another food journey begins.
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