Going to my mom’s childhood home is perhaps the most “Indian” thing I’ve done. My brothers and I call her parents Dida and Dadu, which is Bengali for Grandmother and Grandfather, respectively. They immigrated to the United States in 1967 from Kolkata, India. My mom was tiny, just three years old, and Dida was pregnant with another child. They lived in Detroit, Michigan for a while, in the student apartments of Wayne State University where Dadu went to school and eventually became a professor, teaching students about Civil Engineering. Dida looked after the kids and the house, and worked at a boutique in Somerset Mall.
For maybe the last forty years, they have called this funky house on Lone Pine Road their home. The house is covered with many depictions of Ganesh, an elephant-headed Hindu god. Known as the remover of obstacles, the table by the front door is entirely covered with idols in his image, all about the size of a coffee mug. A mix of South and South-East Asian art adorns many of the walls. With two creaky bamboo spiral staircases and a bathroom with floor to ceiling mirrors as the walls, this house has character. The kitchen is an eggshell white color, with a lot of counter space and old pictures of my brothers and myself on the fridge. A cookie jar my mom made in high school sits on top of the refrigerator; her take on a jolly French chef, reminiscent of Santa Claus, looks over everyone in the kitchen. We like to watch Dida knead dough for the Luchis. She takes the dough, all floured-up, and rolls them into spheres the size of golf balls with quick, circular motions. We squish them into even circles with rolling pins, our brown hands made pale after this task, thanks to the flour. Once deep-fried they morph into an airy pocket of bread, the size of the palm of your hand. It looks like magic, how they puff up so quickly around simmering oil. I've always thought she was fearless, cooking with such hot oils and not being afraid of getting burned. We leave these family dinners with full bellies and too many leftovers placed in old cool whip containers.
We live only twenty minutes away, but it feels like a world apart. My house’s cabinets, rather than being filled with fragrant spices from the local Indian grocer, are filled with boxes of Kraft Mac ‘n Cheese, Cocoa Pebbles, and Quick Curry Paste from the multi-cultural section of Kroger. There are times when I feel more of a craving for Velveeta cheese than I do for anything Dida can make, even her classic meal of aloo and luchis. Sometimes I feel that I don’t deserve this skin. I feel as if I am not performing my ethnicity in quite the right way. I mean, I don’t know many Bengali words or Hindu gods. I don’t get the movie references. I can’t remember whether certain family friends are to be referred to as Mashi, meaning Auntie, or Dida, meaning Grandmother. I have never tied a sari. I am sorry. Until this point I’ve been more comfortable with my whiteness, despite this brown body. I eat the food and take in the sights. I have been an outsider within my own family tree, by choice. Not anymore.
Honoring my Indian heritage has played a huge role in the development of my perfect meal. I know that I need to let go of the illusion of authenticity, of wanting to embody the “right” way of being simultaneously Indian and White. Until I do I don’t think perfection, in all of its misguided glory, is attainable. That being said, I am proud of the meal I made. A simple bowl of Aloo Gobi and Naan, with a cup of sweet Vanilla Lassi. I decided to make this meal because this is a milestone, being the first Indian dish I've made without Dida watching over my shoulder. I haven’t had Indian food since coming to school at the start of the quarter.
Raiding an acquaintance's kitchen cabinets for turmeric, coriander, and cumin was bittersweet. While I know there is not one way to be Indian, it feels like she is doing it better – this very well may be because she is an active member K-Desi, a club for South Asian students on campus to build community. It seems to be made up mostly of first generation folks. For the past two years, I have only attended one meeting, at that was just an excuse to eat the butter chicken that some kid’s mother had made to celebrate Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights. I haven’t celebrated this with my family, but my mom talks about it each year. Usually nothing more than a wistful, “We should celebrate Diwali this year”. I guess she feels a bit out of place too, being a daughter of immigrants in such a white community, raising mixed-race children.
The fluorescent lights in the dairy section of Meijer flicker, as my friends and I looked for the vanilla yogurt with the most fat. "Is all yogurt low-fat, or is this a new thing?" my buddy Karina asked. I don't know. I settled for the container of Annie's organic yogurt, because it was the only one that didn't actually say it had less fat. My house believes in cooking with full fat, with loads of butter, and extra cream. "If you're going to eat, why not eat to indulge?" - My mom's voice echoes in my head as I grab a half gallon of Vitamin D milk. One large russet potato, a head of cauliflower, a serrano pepper, and some Naan bread later, we were ready to roll.
Karina’s kitchen is small with an electric stove top with crooked coils and a sink without a garbage disposal. Still, it was better than using the dorm room kitchens because those are even smaller. I set out all of the ingredients next to the sink. I rinsed the potato, out of habit, and started using a tiny peeler to take off its skin. I had to google how to cut “florets” of a cauliflower. It looked so big, that I didn’t know where to start. I learned from a quick video that florets are the bite-sized pieces of cauliflower. With broccoli, they are the parts that my brothers and I used to call little trees. I cut out the big green leaves from the bottom of the cauliflower, and used a knife to cut out the florets. A plate full of cauliflower came out of it, way too much to feed three people, I think. We ended up using only half of what I cut. I sliced the serrano pepper down the middle and took out the seeds. I don't know if that was right though, because I know seeds can release a lot of flavor when heated up. Robert started on grating the ginger root. It was tough because the root has such a unique shape that the. Instead of grating it, he peeled the outside with the potato peeler and minced it up with a small knife. I don't think our taste buds knew the difference, anyway.
I started on the masala, which was a spice mix of the turmeric and coriander powers. I especially love the rich golden yellow the turmeric adds. These smells brought me back to Dida's house, and to wandering through the aisles of Patel Brothers, the tiny Indian grocer by my house. It felt powerful, walking through those doors with my mom and Dida. It was something about keeping Indian culture close to my heart, to carry on the legacy of Indian cooking. I always push the cart, trailing behind Dida and mom. My eyes linger on the packages with Bengali words scribbled in bold letters. Often, a brown woman with flowing black hair is on the logo, holding a pot of the cooked meal with a prideful smile. I don’t know her.
The masala was ready to go, the produce chopped, and oil's on the stove, heating up. Once it began to simmer, I tossed a serrano pepper in. What an error in judgment that was. The oil was hot. It was too hot. Sputtering and hissing, it was volatile. I had to wait until it calmed down before taking the pepper out. I don't know what should have happened, but this was not it. Later I asked if the smoke alarm works, and Rob said no. Comforting, kind of. I just needed to remember not to start a fire. I re-read the directions on my smartphone. I winced at the memory of being asked to swap recipes with the K-Desi folks. They don’t need to know I got these directions from the food network website.
I shook the thought away, and look over the site three times before returning to the stove top, now set to a medium-low heat. The pepper wasn't completely burnt, so I chopped it up and added it to the masala, before putting it all on the stove with a lot more caution. We let that simmer for about 10 minutes, until the colors deepened into a mustard shade of yellow. Robert added the potatoes and cauliflower to the pot. Yes, I was still afraid of the oil.
The naan was heated in the oven by now, and I grabbed the yogurt and milk from the fridge. I know how to make lassi. We like sweet drinks in our house, so this was simple. Just two cups of yogurt and 1/4 gallon of milk, with sugar to taste. Other varieties are spiced lassi, and my favorite - mango lassi, which young kids especially like because it comes in a nice orangey yellow color and is creamy to help calm down taste buds after a spicy meal. I spooned three scoops of aloo gobi into my bowl, and two triangle pieces of naan. The bright yellowy green color of the potatoes made me feel at home. Those colors would be in splatters all over Dida’s kitchen when she cooked. I used the naan to help me eat with my hands, the way Dadu likes to eat. Forks are overrated. I ate this on my own, because Robert had a meeting to head off to and Karina was watching The Foster’s on Netflix. An hour later Rob came back hungry. We reheated the aloo gobi and naan in the microwave. The naan got less firm, but the aloo gobi tasted the same. Reheated Indian food is better than none at all. Robert grabbed a fork. I went back for seconds, but this time making a sandwich with naan for the bread, aloo gobi in the middle. My younger brother does this every time we go to Dida’s.
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