This Week’s Tiffin

Guyanese Chow Mein

A savory, vegetable-rich chow mein in the classic Guyanese style — smoky, seasoned, and deeply comforting. A bowl that always tastes like home to me.
(GF rice noodle version available.)

Casareep Chicken

Tender chicken simmered in dark casareep until the sauce turns silky and rich. Served over the chow mein so the flavors settle into every strand.

Quick Pickled Cucumbers & Onions

Crisp, bright, and sharp — the refreshing bite that balances the deep sweetness of the casareep.

Rasgulla

Soft, delicate milk-based dumplings soaked in a lightly sweet syrup — airy, tender, and a gentle finish to a richly seasoned meal.

Note: The best laid plans of mice and men!

I had planned to make rasgulla this week, but the milk and I had creative differences. So we’re pivoting to a beautiful, rich kheer instead. An Indian style rice pudding. I hope you enjoy.

The Story

When I was a child, we lived in a one-bedroom house on stilts, seven of us in a single room: my parents, my four siblings, and me. It was a tiny home before tiny homes were a thing, but we hardly noticed; most of our lives were spent outdoors, the whole village stretching out around us like an open yard.

And across the road, just before the seawall, lived the obeah man — also known as the chow mein man.

We all knew the rules: don’t stare at him, don’t linger by his gate, and if he ever called your name, pretend you didn’t hear and run. In Guyana, these things didn’t need explaining, superstition and mythology were part of our daily lives, as familiar as our own heartbeat.

In those days, life moved in small, steady rhythms. Sometimes my father would be gone for weeks at a time, hauling punts for the sugar cane plantation, and when he came back the whole house would change. There would be questions and stories and laughter, and money would flow a little easier. And when money was looser, we ate better.

Those were the times we could afford a chicken. My mother would make curry first, then she would stretch the rest to flavor several meals, but she would always set some aside to make chow mein.

And guess where we got the noodles from?
Sometimes, most times, that job fell to me. I would cross that road, trembling, my eyes straight ahead, my mother’s eyes glued to my back.

The obeah man was always outside, sitting quietly, watching the road, noticing everything. It took every ounce of courage I had to step into that yard. I would hand over the money, he would look at it, “one bag then?” I would nod, too afraid to speak. He would hand me the bag of noodles, and I would run back home as fast as my scrawny little legs would carry me.

The truth is simple: the noodles were necessary and that was the only place to get it. So we crossed the road when we needed to.

My childhood memory of chow mein is all of that, and my family sitting on the steps afterwards, with bowls in their laps, quiet as if there was a pooja going on. No arguing, no rushing, only the sound of lips smacking, fingers licking, and the joy of a meal that made everything else around us disappear for one beautiful moment in time.

Memory

Chow mein is one of those dishes that shows up in almost every Guyanese household, no matter where your family came from or what religion you practiced. It entered the kitchens the same way everything does in Guyana, through migration and mixing.

Spice Lore

Casareep comes from the Indigenous peoples of Guyana; a syrup born from bitter cassava, boiled down until it becomes dark, syrupy, and delicious. It was once used to preserve meat for journeys through the rainforest. Today, it is the soul of dishes like pepperpot and casareep chicken (chasers).

A reminder that food crosses boundaries and borders; food travels with you through every migration.

Notes from the Kitchen

A wok has its own kind of rhythm, the quick flare of heat, the shimmer of oil, the soft hiss when noodles hit the pan.

Food doesn’t just feed a body. It brings people together, it creates stories, and leaves memories scattered like seeds.