At the age of six, I recognized that my food contrasted with my classmates’ meals. My immigrant mother refrained from sending me to school with grilled cheese sandwiches, chicken nuggets, or pizza for lunch. When I removed the lid of my lunchbox, I would always be greeted with rice and curry, a culinary staple in my home.
In my home, we often eat rice accompanied by multiple curries, which can take hours to prepare. My mother, knowing that I took particular pleasure in indulging in my cultural food, invested significant amounts of labour into cooking dishes that I could take to school. Having recently immigrated to Canada with my family, the meals she prepared held sentimental value and provided me with a sense of stability in an unfamiliar environment. While I couldn’t fully express these feelings as a six-year-old, I innately experienced a connection with my birthplace of Kerala, India whenever I ate the lunches my mother made.
One day, I brought chicken curry to school. As a child, I viewed this dish as a delicacy and had eagerly watched my mother pack it up that morning. She had awoken early after a night shift to prepare the mouth-watering meal, consisting of tender chicken marinated in a flavourful curry, bursting with aroma after being carefully cooked to the perfect texture. But as I excitedly dug my fork into the tender chicken at lunchtime, two girls approached my desk, and one exclaimed that my delectable chicken curry resembled feces.
I dropped my fork and melted into my seat. The tasty chicken curry suddenly became unpalatable — not just to those around me, but also to myself.
That day, beyond my pride, I lost an appreciation for my mother’s labour as well. She cooked the meal by herself only to be met with rejection and a full lunchbox returning home. It was as though other individuals dictated which kind of labour is less valuable and what cuisines are considered “normal.”
A few years back, I asked my mother how to prepare some of Kerala’s regional dishes. The conversation moved to my experience of bringing chicken curry to school as a child. For the first time, I spoke directly to my mother about that encounter, and I witnessed a change of expression in her face. I saw amusement, embarrassment, and disappointment flicker through my mother’s eyes as I recounted the events of that day. We both fell silent following the end of my story. There was a shared understanding that we were both powerless.
My mother then broke the silence and simply stated, “I did not think that would happen.” When immigrating to Canada, my parents had no prior experience living in a foreign country and were unsure of how to navigate a culture different from the one they were accustomed to. From my mother’s perspective, she was naïvely displaying affection through the preparation of a meal that she understood her child adored. I realized that there was no shame to be found in this display of care.
Recently, I expressed my desire to eat chicken curry to my mother, to which she replied, “adukkalayil enne sahaayikku,” which translates to “come help me in the kitchen, then.” I quickly complied and watched her retrieve the frozen chicken from its spot in the refrigerator. I was instructed to begin chopping the onions, tomatoes, and ginger. As we cooked, the aromas that filled the kitchen transformed me into that six-year-old self, awoken by the scent of my mother’s chicken curry. Yet in the same instance, everything was different. I was no longer a young child simply observing my mother. This time, I was preparing the meal alongside her, sharing that labour of care between us. While I have always appreciated my mother’s cooking, I gained a newfound admiration as I followed her lead through the kitchen. As a child, I failed to recognize the extent of labour my South Asian mother dedicated to my upbringing. These acts of service, traditionally viewed as innate to a mother-child relationship, are often rooted in duty and sustain families, even entire communities, without adequate recognition.
Before I knew it, the dish had appeared like a replica from my memory, the intense smell of it drawing my family to the dining table. The succulent chicken curry mixed with the fluffy, light rice to create an impactful flavour filled with love and passion. Perhaps the admiration for my mother’s cooking clouded my judgement, but that chicken curry tasted like the most delectable dish the planet had to offer. It brought back fond memories of my childhood, when such a simple meal had brought comfort in this unfamiliar country.
For generations, people have masked parts of themselves in the hopes of better integrating with their new social environment. Conformity can seem minuscule, like altering the food one consumes, but the impact is extreme. If I had the opportunity to be that six-year-old girl in that situation again, I would continue eating. Instead of dropping my fork, I would use it as a shield to protect my heritage. We defend our identity, and the unseen efforts often necessary to preserve it, by continuing to practise our culture even in moments of tribulation.
My mother’s chicken curry taught me the significance of empathy, courage, and coming out of a situation not with humiliation but humility. I will always have a special gratitude for this meal, which has fed me in so many different ways.
