Perfect Meal Draft

Some Bengali Words To Know:

Dida (De-Dah): grandmother 

Dadu (Dah-Doo): grandfather 

Ganesh (Gah-Nesh): a Hindu god, elephant head and four arms, remover of obstacles

Aloo: (Ah-Loo): potatoes

Aloo Gobi (Ah-Loo Go-Be): potatoes and cauliflower with turmeric and various spices

Naan (Non): Typical fluffy bread that many serve with many kinds of Indian food

Luchi (Loo-chee): whole wheat bread that puffs up when fried

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Going to my mom’s childhood home was perhaps the most “Indian” thing I’ve done. Her parents, who my brothers and I call Dida and Dadu, immigrated here in 1968 from Kolkata, India. My mom was three years old, and Dida was pregnant with another child. They lived in Detroit for a while, in the student apartments for Wayne State University. Dadu went to school and eventually became a professor, teaching students about Civil Engineering, while 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, the elephant-headed Hindu god. Known as the remover of obstacles, the table by the front door is entirely covered with idols in his image. 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 all an eggshell white color, with a lot of counter space and old pictures of my brothers and I on the fridge. I like to watch Dida knead dough for the Luchis. She takes the dough, all floured-up, and rolls them into spheres the size of a golf ball with circular motions, and we’d squish it into an even circle with a rolling pin. I always get flour on my forehead, somehow. From a small and flat circle, once deep-fried they’d 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, for cooking with such hot oils and not being afraid of getting burned. We’d leave these family dinners and go back to our home. 

We lived only a few minutes away, but it felt 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 best Butter Chicken. 

For my idea of the perfect meal, my ethnicity plays a huge role. I need to let go of the illusion of authenticity, of wanting to embody the “right” way of being Indian and White. Until I do that, I don’t think perfection, in all of its misguided glory, is attainable for me. 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. This was the first Indian dish I've made without Dida watching over my shoulder. This assignment allowed me to confront my anxieties around my identity as someone who is biracial, but does not yet feel comfortable in solely Indian spaces or solely white spaces. Raiding an acquaintance's kitchen cabinets for turmeric, coriander, and cumin was interesting. While there is no one way to be Indian, it feels like she is still more Indian than I am, and so even while it feels comforting being in her presence, I tend to feel self-conscious around her. Right now I only know a handful of Bengali words, and most of them are foods. 

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 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. 

Once back, I set out all of the ingredients, and a friend and I started peeling the potato and cutting out the florets of the cauliflower. 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. Instead of grating it, we peeling the outside and minced it up. I don't think our taste buds will know the difference, anyway. I started on the masala, which was a 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 with her and my mom, 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, because my brother's sure aren't. 

The masala was ready to go, the produce chopped, and oil's 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. The oil started sputtering and 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. Robert ran into the kitchen as the hissing sound and started laughing. 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 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 kindly added the potatoes and cauliflower to the mix. 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. The meal finished at an awkward time. It was 9pm, and Robert had to work on a group project. It was okay, but I wish I could've eaten it with my friend. He got back an hour later, and we reheated the aloo gobi and naan. Still, reheated Indian food is better than none at all. I went back for seconds, but this time making a sandwich with naan for the bread, aloo gobi in the middle. I wish I had made luchis, because those are so much more fun to eat. You can pop the air out of them and roll the aloo inside, like my little brothers like to do. 

Nowhere near perfect, but still good. The serrano pepper and ginger added a bit more spice. The turmeric gave this that familiar yellow color. The lassi was refreshing and smooth. It felt like I was at Dida's dining room table, stuffing my face at a Sunday night dinner with my family. I think perfection and authenticity are overrated, anyway. I'd rather have real.