Meals

 

Ayahuasca, Amazon, by Mirella Ricciardi

Meals- An Essay

 

If I am to begin anywhere, I must begin with my mother. Complicated woman, complicated cooking. I use my mothers cooking style to inform me of her mood, which I have done so since I could eat on my own.

 

If my mother was feeling a lust for life that day, she’d make a large complicated dish and it would be a family dinner. Either Mantu (steamed meat and onion filled dumplings with dahl on top as well as garlic yoghurt) or during winter, she’d make Shorwa (meat stew with chopped vegetables, served with naan, salad, and yoghurt).

 

She’d try recipes from the Healthy magazine or daytime cooking shows she’d watch when my brother and I at school. My mum has a couple of one hit wonders- never again made dishes that I beg her to do e.g. Indian fish curry.

 

            During my mother’s depressed episodes, exacerbated by my father, she would at first make a simple dish, to show my father she’s upset and he’s taking liberties. Like dahl soup or potato curry. Later she would stop cooking for the house at all, the kitchen would be cold and alone. It was at this point, I taught myself how to cook.

 

I would wake up while the house was asleep. My mother, tired from yesterday’s cleaning, laundry and childcare would sleep in.

 

I foraged onions, tomatoes, eggs, potatoes, and mushrooms to make an omelet.

 

 By foraged, I mean wildly swing cabinets and drawers open, to find what I was looking for.

  If I was especially hungry, I would butter some toast too. With this, I would make an omelet, working out heat and timing like a novice painter or musician. Testing, trying again, testing.

I advanced as I grew up, with the help of my primary and secondary school and their food tech programmes. I moved toward Japanese food while I started reading Haruki Murakami. Simple noodle dishes with green onions, garlic, honey, and peanut butter sauce. Gyozas and sushi with my mum in Uxbridge town and if I was lucky, Tia and I would make the trip to Taco Bell. The unreal, unrefined taste reminds me of hot summers in California with my grandma and uncles. I used to love the 70’s décor of their local joint. my uncle always used to get the subway meatball Mariana and let my older brother and I each have a salty, tangy bite. 

 

In California, breakfast with my grandma featured American cereal if I woke up early or warm afghan bread, sweet green tea (black tea for after), freshly whipped afghan cream (Qymaq, I mixed with jam or honey) and fruits if we woke up with my mum. I’d nibble and keep on nibbling, one more slice, another cup. The smell of the bread, heated and gently charred on the stove would fill the house, wafting in each room like a morning wake up call. When I think of Mother Jan (Mother dear), food is always near her. From garden parties, where the men would get the barbeque out and the women would chop the salad or marinate the meat. “Too much garlic, not enough salt” They would always find something to complain about. Children running around with either a toy, plant matter or an ice pop in their sticky fingers. I’d drift from place to place, in non-committal conversations with family and family friends. Rice. Glistening mounds of salty rice each evening, each soft grain separate but together. This is a sure sign in Persia that you are a good cook.  Of course the star of the show was the kebab. Hot, salty, with bits of fat to chew and spit out. My mother surely loves her kebab and sometimes we head to the local Afghan place to have some.

 

My mum would encourage my grandma to eat some okra or spinach curry due to her poor quality of life caused by bad habits. But my grandma wouldn’t have it, she loved the gristle and marrow on meat bones, the edges of her lips would gleam with oil. She would tear white fat off with her teeth and chew like a baby with soft plastic. She once made this spicy spaghetti, probably an amalgamation of afghan and American-Italian food and I remember sneaking in the night to get some. I asked her in the morning if there was any left , but I was defeated and she told me she finished it all, slightly proud that her granddaughter wanted more. Good food goes quick, I learnt that then. Spending time with my grandmother, she passed on food related wisdom like

 

“Don’t get up from the dinner table once seated, it’ll ruin your appetite”

Or “sweet tea and hot salty fries for tummy aches”

“green tea and/or a walk after a big meal to help digestion

 

“sharing food blesses it” (I made this one up, but I believe it).