The Flavors of Home

In my kitchen in the heart of Silicon Valley, I try to recreate the flavors of home. I simply call this “khaana” or food, while my equally Indian husband, having grown up in the Middle East and Canada, calls it “Indian food.” I make rotis  (Indian bread) to accompany the curries, dals and vegetable side dishes that I whip up. 

To do this, I first knead the dough with my hands, and then make small round balls that I flatten using a rolling pin. Finally, I toast these on a griddle.

Generations of women in my country have followed these exact same steps.

When I started making rotis about a year and a half back, this laborious process would irritate me. I struggled against it constantly, blanking out as I wrestled with the dough. My marriage to this wonderful man had also landed me in the default role of an expat house-wife, “the house-wife” part of which I chafed at.

But I did my best. I expanded my knowledge of cooking beyond the basics. Apart from Indian food, I made soups and pasta sauces from scratch and baked muffins. And of course, I practiced my roti-making skills, wishing that there was a way to get through it quickly.

And then, some friends lent us a tortilla press so we could try and make rotis a little more easily. I still needed to knead the dough and form it into balls. But I could try and shave some time off the rolling. I didn’t know whether it would work, but thought it was worth a try.

Weeks passed, and the little press remained unused. I always thought I would use it tomorrow, only I never did. Something in me just couldn’t let go of the common thread that binds me to my mother, my grandmother and all the countless women before them. The vein passed from them into me and connected me to the marrow of my culture.

That’s why food is so precious. It grounds our memories and connects us to everything that nourished us in the past. So, even though it takes time, I bhuno (slow-fry) vegetables, cooking them in their own juices, instead of drowning the taste with water. I make chutneys, including a special tomato one using jaggery and a special 5-spice mix called panch phoron, just the way my mother makes.

Now, I try to see cooking as a medium to create my new home. I use it to settle into the deep rhythms of the home that I carry inside. And try to synchronize that rhythm with that of my husband’s, whose memories of “ghar ka khaana” or home food consist of shawarmas, falafels, and kebabs.

With him, I have discovered other homes. This exploration has been full of surprising recognitions. When I tried Baba Ghanoush, a Middle-eastern aubergine dip, I immediately felt comforted. Its smoky, earthy flavor echoes the notes of the Indian baingan bharta.

Another delightful discovery has been the preserved ginger that comes with sushi. It tastes almost exactly like the wondrous ginger pickle that can only be found in small shops in the narrow alleys of Old Delhi’s spice market, amid the shops that sell whole spices: star-shaped anise and buds of cloves.

Although these discoveries have been wonderful, the journey of combining the different homes that we both carry inside has had its ups and downs. We struggled in the beginning. I thought I was adjusting more, cooking dishes that he liked. He thought he adjusted a lot, eating the mostly Indian food I cooked at home instead of the “2 or 3 days Indian” that he was used to.

The truth is that we both moved, we both adjusted. We still get wobbly, but through our sharing, I am catching a glimpse of what it would be like to have a larger, more expansive home – a home where I can both recreate the way home tasted and felt in the past, and also synthesize a new home – a home that we are both making together.

All I have to do is let go of the idea that home is a static place, instead of this moving, dynamic space that opens up whenever I do.