Saptiya? (Had food?)
My earliest childhood memories were set around our kitchen. I remember the sounds and smells associated with certain dishes. In my pre-teen years, it was my job to crush garlic, ginger and chili peppers in a stone mortar and pestle that is still very functional in my mother’s kitchen today. From this, I graduated to chopping vegetables, meat and preparing full meals for the family on my own.
I come from a culturally mixed family — my Mom is Malaysian and my Dad is Guyanese. My Mom travelled to Guyana in her youth, met my Dad, fell in love and the rest is history, as they say. Growing up, both my parents worked full-time jobs in the capitol city, Georgetown, Guyana, South America. We lived in a little village called Hague, nestled on the West Coast of the Demerara River. To get to and from town, we had to cross the Demerara Harbour Bridge daily. This is the longest floating bridge in the world. Traffic was nightmarish, due to the then very erratic opening and closing schedule of the bridge to facilitate ocean going vessels. The commute was hours some days. Due to the limited time in the evenings, the kitchen became the hub for our lives. Family discussions, homework, meals, even entertaining guests…everything happened in the kitchen.
As I got older, moving into my difficult teenage years, I found myself constantly comparing my family life to what I would see in the households of my friends. I would often hear their parents say the words “I love you” to them. I tried to remember if I had heard these words with as much frequency in my home. I did not. It would take me years of living away from my parents and several university classes on psychology and behaviour to understand that I did, in fact, grow up in a household full of love. For my mother, cooking and providing for her family was her language of love.
In my family, both immediate and extended, our love language still is very much food. We are the happiest when we are cooking together, feeding each other and discovering new places to eat. Very simply put, we are the ultimate foodies. My close friends will always tell me that I lucked out, that my husband Rory is a very special breed of man. He will stroll through the kitchen and I will offer him something on a spoon, taken out of a simmering pot on the stove and say “taste this”. He will open his mouth and taste my cooking without question. This man doesn’t say “I love you” to me everyday, but he will eat whatever I give him with relish and gusto. This is how I know I am loved unconditionally by him. In my heart, this translates to “I trust you”, “I know I am safe with you” and “I know you will provide for me”.
From the moment we are born, the first thing we are given is food. When babies are breastfed, the hormone oxytocin is released. This creates a connection, a bond between the mother and her child. Food and feeding people builds a connection and nurtures a relationship.
Gary Chapman wrote the New York Times Bestseller “The Five Love Languages” almost 20 years ago. In this book, the five love languages that Chapman outlines are: gifts, quality time, words of affirmation, acts of service, and physical touch. One of the book’s most important takeaways is sometimes we don’t speak the same love language as our partners. This causes word and actions to be misunderstood, leading to conflict and resentment.
Human behaviour and relationship expert Patrick Wanis, Ph.D. said “when two people have common languages of love, they will experience more love and there will be less emptiness in the relationship.” But is there a love language that everyone speaks? Wanis proposes a sixth love language for us to consider: food, but more specifically, the preparing and serving of food.
When I studied Health Coaching at the Institute of Integrative Nutrition, I was taught that energy is in everything, transferred from person to person, through touch, through vibes, even into food when you prepare and cook it. Ashrams in India believe in three levels of cleanliness for their food — the cook must be clean, the vessel must be clean and the food must be clean. The happiest, most grounded member of the ashram usually does the cooking. This is how sacred the cooking of food can be.
Getting a combo meal at a fast food joint with someone you care about can still be very meaningful, but putting together the meal yourself carries more weight. You are giving of yourself, giving of your time, your emotions, your essence. Whatever you are feeling goes into the food. I was always cautioned by my paternal aunts “Gyal, nah mek sense cook a pot when yuh vex or sad. The food gun taste bad.”
You are literally giving of yourself when you create a meal for someone. You are considering their unique tastes, their preferences and their desires. You are also putting a bit of your spirit into the dish. I think this is why no two dishes taste the same, no matter how closely you follow the recipe. I have a recipe for my mother’s rassam. It is a dish I could make in my sleep, but it doesn’t taste like hers. It doesn’t taste bad, but it is definitely not hers, even though I use her recipe. The essence of the person is what changes the flavour of the dish. The end goal is to create a customised experience, making your person wholly happy. This says “I am a nourishing and nurturing person. I care for you.”, and affirms for the other person, “I am significant. I am cared for. You love me enough to make sure that I don’t die of starvation.”
My maternal grandmother only spoke a few words of English, but she was fluent in Malay, Tamil and Cantonese. Whenever I would go to her house, she would very awkwardly hug and kiss me and then ask in Tamil, Sapitya? (Had food?) This is probably the only Tamil phase I can recognise today. Over the years, I have discovered that my ultimate comfort food is not actually food. It is the most amazing hot drink ever. Masala Chai. One cup of this will ground me and comfort me. One sip will immediately bring a smile to my face and it will make me do my happy food wiggle dance.
I will share my masala chai recipe with you, in the hope that it will comfort you as much it does me. It is a very simple recipe, one which I have tweaked over time and which I make with a certain degree of sacredness and reverence.
This recipe will make 4 cups of chai. You will need:
2 inches of fresh ginger, washed and peeled
8 green cardamom pods
1 4-inch cinnamon stick
10 peppercorns
2 star anise
4 tablespoons of loose leaf black tea (Assam is best, but any loose leaf tea will do)
4 cup of whole milk or coconut milk
Sweetener (optional)
First you will need to gently bruise the spices. I do this using my mortar and pestle. The flat side of a large knife and a chopping board works just as well. This helps to release essential oils that will infuse your tea. Second, add the bruised spices and loose tea leaves to your pot. Add 4 cups of water. Bring to the boil. Once the tea has come to the boil, turn it off immediately and allow it to steep for 10 minutes. If you allow your tea to come to a hard boil, it will become bitter. In tea culture, bitter tea is only served to your enemies. It is disrespectful to serve bitter tea. Traditionally, Assam tea leaves are what is used. There is reference in the Ramayana that chai, made with Assam tea leaves was the concoction used to bring a comatose Lakshman back to life. I use one tablespoon of loose tea leaves per person and a cup of water per serving. No loose tea leaves? One or two tea bags per person will work as well.
After the tea has steeped for 10 minutes, you can add your milk of choice. Masala chai is a very rich, creamy drink. I add 1 cup of whole milk per serving. Coconut milk is a vegetarian/vegan alternative that is just as tasty. If you use sweetener, this can be added now.
Mix well, strain and serve. Masala chai is traditionally served in a tall glass, not a mug, with enough space left at the top so that you can hold the top of the glass with your fingers. Why a glass and not a mug? A tall narrow vessel will keep your chai hotter for longer. Apart from making sure your chai stays hot, the use of the glass is actually a tradition that has evolved over the years. In the 1950’s chai was served in tea cups and saucers. Chaiwallahs found that the tannin in the Assam tea leaves stained the china cups. Customers were also stealing the cups and saucers and while they were beautiful to look at, they were difficult to stack. Brass cups were another option that was explored, but these tended to burn the customer’s hands, as the heat was transmitted from the tea to the cup too quickly. This made a tall glass the perfect serving choice. It retains heat, stacks well and also allows for chaiwallahs to safely place them in the customary grid serving trays.
