A nostalgic palate

My earliest vivid food memory goes all
the way back to my very young sunny days in Nashik. I would return from school
in a three wheeled contraption that would miraculously and very unsafely
transport over 10 kids to school and back. My favorite spot was of course next
to the driver on a make shift seat that was originally intended to be a battery
cover. I would run out of that contraption with a well-founded hunger towards
the third floor of our apartment facing the road. My mom would wave me in as I
would ask her rather seriously if the “yellow bhat” was ready. To which she
would, without fail, say yes.

“Yellow Bhat” was Rice with a very
basic yellow lentil soup of a very thick consistency. The yellowness came from
the lentil and the turmeric that was used lightly. The rice was pleasing white,
hot and scrumptious to eat. That would remain my staple for the longest time
until of course my Dad introduced me to the delicacies of eating meat.

There was another time where I
remember distinctly sitting on the floor with old newspapers strewn about
around me. Smaller kids like me sat around Dad in a circle awaiting further
instructions. In front of me lay a decidedly red crab cooked by my mom. Only
earlier that morning I had witnessed, how the live crab went from a basket, to
what lay on my plate. And while that thought was partially squeamish, my Dad’s
clear instructions had me going well. The claws were separated and sucked on.
The insides were cleaned. And finally after what felt like forever, I fished
inside for my first taste of the delicious crab meat.

I was hooked. Further new eating
experiences were reserved for Sunday afternoons. I would run up the staircases
smelling the aroma of the slowly stewed mutton. I would spend hours at the
table until all the meat was gnawed off the bones. I remember distinctly biting
into my first piece of cooked mutton. Of course, my mom’s spices played an
orchestra on my tongue. But what really made me a convert was the distinct
taste and texture of the meat. I remember all of this, with the hot afternoons
and spinning ceiling fans.

Growing up, food continued to play
larger than usual role in constructing memories. My palate was being bombarded
by new flavors, smells and textures. There was the crispiness and sweetness of
fresh fruits. There was the distinct earthiness of legumes and pulses. The
pungency of raw garlic, the subtlety of fresh green vegetables all swirled
around concrete memories of a time gone past. My age was speeding up nicely and
food memories now involved new places and new memories along with the new
tastes.

In a nondescript restaurant in
Pittsburgh I tasted my first sushi. A few years later I followed that up by
eating fresher sushi in the glittering city of Tokyo itself and discovered how
fresh fish really tasted. A sophistication of flavor that I hadn’t ever tasted!
In America, I made a mess of my face by digging into the perfectly barbecued
ribs. There were juiciest of burgers, crispiest of French fries fried in duck
fat on a hot summer’s day in Chicago. In Germany, I remember the cold October
evenings with the earthy pork flavored stews or the juicy knack of a grilled
bratwurst or the delicious saltiness of natural bacon.

It has become common practice for food
memories to be milestones of things I have done, faces I have met and places I
have seen. In fact, I constantly seek new food memories so that I can bookmark
a trip as if pictures alone wouldn’t help. I am already salivating at the food
experiences that I am about to have this time when I head back home and further
east. Even today, after a quarter of living, I am still so thrilled that newer
food experiences still await my already well burdened tongue.

I am not sure why my memories are most
vivid when there is food involved. Perhaps this quality isn’t really special
and we all distinctly remember our experiences with food. It has now become
such an important part of my happiness that I seem to distrust all others who
think of food as mere method of sustenance.

There is much to attain, still. Far more
concrete ambitions await my attempts. Yet I wonder if I would ever get there, were
it not for the delicious hot meals that I occasionally eat or perhaps the earlier
memories have remained etched forever.

There are miles to go before I sleep.
But I sure am glad that I have had already something to eat.