I open the heavy door to my grandmother’s house. I breathe deeply as the smells of multiple dishes hit my nose. My mind rushes to guess what dishes my grandmother, Nayanamma, made today. Navigating the laughter and hearing the crunch of snacks from my aunts, uncles and cousins sprawled across the living room, I make my way to the heart of the home: the kitchen. Here, Nayanamma does the final touches on her food, her masterpiece for the day.
No matter when we come, something fresh is always cooked on the stove, the aromas tickling my nose. Nayanamma always makes a feast when her family comes, no matter how many or few arrive. As soon as she announces that it’s time to eat, we jump up and crowd around her counter, piling our plates with steaming food.
As I sit down at the table, my mind clears and I focus on the plate in front of me; everything else melts away. I love the different flavors and spices that tingle my tongue as I spoon rice and curry into my mouth. Her foods feature rich flavors and a balance of textures. Whether it’s the warmth of a soup, the crispy potato fry or the burning of the chai tea, her food offers both physical and emotional nourishment. It’s more than just satisfying hunger; it soothes away stress, bite by bite, plate after plate.
As we finish our meal, our stomachs are full and our eyelids droop as we try not to fall asleep in the comfort of her house. Before leaving, everyone takes the classic plastic containers stored in her cupboards and fills them to the brim with food. As we load them up, I’m excited to bring them home and eat her food for the rest of the week. While we may come in empty-handed, Nayanamma always makes sure we never leave like that.
Cooking is Nayanamma’s love language. She loves to feed her children and grandchildren — including her granddogs. She’s been cooking her whole life, so her skills are honed. She builds every dish instinctively, rather than following recipes with arithmetic measurements. She learned the basics when she was a little girl in India, the recipes being passed down from generation to generation. Her mind is filled with dozens of recipes. Now, she’s started to teach me her way of cooking and pass down her knowledge. Each recipe has the same foundational mix of spices. If I get that down, I could make any dish I wanted using any combination of vegetables.
The preparation of her food involves ritual — the same bowls she serves the food in, the same cups for water, the same tub of homemade spice mixture. Everything stays the same, everything is well-loved. The consistency of these elements wraps us in nostalgia, providing us with comfort and familiarity.
My grandma puts love and care into every dash of spice, chopping of vegetables and final mix before serving. It’s her way to show the people she’s cooking for that she loves them. And by eating her food, we show her that we value and appreciate her and love her back.
Whether it’s the texture, taste or memories of eating lunch at Nayanamma’s house with all my cousins and seeing the same scene every time, these foods offer a source of familiarity and stability in my world. The experience of eating her food offers a sense of peace and warmth that lingers long after the meal is over.
