“Clink, clink, clink.” The familiar sound of my mother tapping a metal spoon against the edge of the porcelain plate, shaking off the last few grains of rice. She slowly begins to place the different curries around the circle of rice: first chicken, followed by beans, spinach, and fish. She places the now-filled plate into the microwave to warm up. As she stands waiting for the food, I ask her, “Mom, if you can cook so many different dishes, like baked ziti, chicken marsala, skirt steak, tacos, then why do we eat Indian food almost every night? Why not something different every night?” She turns to me, smiles, and says, “Because it’s one of the few things I can give to you.” She tells me about how everything on the plate is made the same way as it was made back home. “Close your eyes” she tells me. Skeptically I oblige, and my mother begins to tell me a story:
“Imagine Shanty Uncle’s house. The walls were made of cinder blocks cemented together and the floors were a cool, polished clay, similar to those at your dad’s house. My brothers and sisters, your aunts and uncles, were always running around playing with each other. I remember this one time we were playing hide-and-seek and I ran outside and into the outside kitchen.”
“There, I remember seeing my mom stirring this huge pot of chili chicken. She stopped only to wipe the sweat of her brow, and to adjust the fire she was using to cook. After adding the onion and capsicum (bell peppers) to the mix, she finally noticed me. She look at me and asked “ Why are you here? What do you need?””
“Instead of answering her question, I stared, gap-mouthed, at the large pot of chili chicken cooking. The pot was as wide as I was tall. I then remembered I had been asked a question. I replied by asking, “Is that all for us[the entire family]?” My mother looked back at me and laughed, saying “Of course it is!”
My mother, your grandmother, was a very tiny women, so of course the next thing out of my mouth was “Why did you make so much? You’re going to break your back stirring that!”
My mother looked back at me, smiled, and said, “I making it because I want to show you guys how much I love you. I want to make sure that each of you understands how much I love you and how much I want you to feel like you can always come here and feel special. I want you to feel like this will always be your home.” She then took a little piece of chili chicken, popped it into my mouth, turned me around, and pushed me off. I still remember the warmth, sweetness, and spiciness of that piece of chili chicken.”
I opened my eyes at this point only to be greeted by a smile on both my and my mother’s face. She looked at me and continued speaking, this time in Malayalam. “I choose to give you guys Indian food almost every day for two reasons: so that you will never forget your culture, and that you will experience the same love that I felt from my mother that day. Personally, it’s more so for the second reason than the first. You experience your culture in so many different ways already, Kuttai (my mom’s name for me).”
“Through Malayalam school, the dance performances, and even your friends, you’ve learned more than I hoped for about being Malayalee. What matters more to me is that you understand that this food is a symbol of the love not only from your dad and I, but also from everyone we left back in India.”
“It’s a common factor that unites us all, no matter the distance, and reminds us that we will always be family, regardless of where we are. My other hope is that you will also introduce Indian food to your family, that you will carry shower your children with the same love that we gave to you. We hope that you will raise your family with the same morals and values that we share.”
As I open my mouth, I am interrupted by a blaring “beep beep beep,”the sound of the microwave letting the user know the food is warmed up. My mother turns around and removes the plate from the microwave. As she turns back, she says, “Kuttai, your dad’s food is done and it’s time for us to eat. It’s also time for you to do some homework. We can talk more later, okay?” As she leaves the room and I walk back to mine, I realize that I already have heard more than I could have ever imagined.
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