The dish that remembers me

Every family has that one special dish—the one that does more than satisfy your hunger. It resonates.
No matter where you are now, what language you think in, or whether you can pronounce its name, it holds your memories like prayer beads—close, rhythmic, familiar. Some of us grew up in homes where food was love. Others discovered that food could be a form of control—a way to create silence instead of comfort.
And yet, even during the hardest moments, there was magic in a rare sweet, something real in a meal shared. It pulls you back to the table—knees too high, feet swinging. To the open-air markets, voices singing through spice and sweat: “How much yuh want fuh da bora?” “Fish, get yuh fresh fish ova hay.” Music from childhood.
It’s the rhythm of well-worn wooden spoons, the squabbles in the kitchen, the moment someone says, “Try this,” like it’s a spell.
For me, it was paratha roti and baigan choka—fluffy Indian bread with smoky eggplant.
I can still see that moment—my mother, proud just to put food on the table. That was a kind of wealth too.

Your dish may be different. A comforting broth. A warm loaf of bread. A rice dish steeped in garlic and nostalgia. Or maybe, like me, it was the joy of vanilla ice cream shared on weathered front steps in the heat. That ice cream came on special days—when my father received a rare bonus from the sugarcane plantation.
There was only one flavor. That was enough. We laughed as it dripped down our arms, unaware we were stitching memories into the seams of our lives.

We often don’t realize how much memory lives in a recipe until we try to make it ourselves.
Suddenly, we’re measuring sadness in teaspoons. Stirring grief with bay leaves. Calling moms, aunties, or someone else’s grandma and asking, “How much is a handful, really?”

Food is more than culture. It’s language. It’s resistance hidden in spice blends. It’s healing disguised as soup. It’s everything colonialism tried to erase—still simmering, still singing. And here’s the beautiful part: You don’t need to perfect the recipe to feel the connection.

Burn it a little. Substitute what you don’t have. Forget the plating. It will still wrap around you like a memory. Because that dish doesn’t just bring you back. It remembers you.

So tell me—what dish calls you home? What scent makes your chest tighten with memory?
Go ahead. Make it. Do it with chaos. Do it with joy. Do it like it’s a party. Because when you do, you’re not just feeding yourself—you’re writing yourself back into the story.