Comfort Food

Today, as I hurriedly grabbed the pot of plain yogurt from the fridge to scoop into my boys’ plates, I was reminded of an incident during my early days in the UK.

Having recently arrived in the UK, I was wistfully in the quest for something that reminded me of home, of Mumbai. I distinctly remember that cold winter’s day in the year when the financial recession combined with thick inches of snow made for a grim state of mind. A mind like mine then wasn’t bereft of existential questions. And so, I braved the biting cold to step out into the freezing afternoon, dressed as a novice would – just a jacket, thin woollen gloves and an ill fitting cap. 

I walked into the local supermarket as I often do when I am feeling a little glum. The general buzz of activity along with easily accessible food aid in calming my overactive thought processes. I sauntered into the dairy aisle without really meaning to as who in their right mind would consciously enter the cold storage area without having an absolute need to? I realised my poor decision of aisle selection when the draft of cold air enveloped me once again and I immediately hurried my pace in search of the bakery section where the aroma of freshly baked bread always serves to comfort my senses.

 It was then that I saw it in the periphery of my vision. That ordinary looking pot of plain yoghurt sitting quite frankly as a boring sibling would next to its more glamorous looking brethren. My heart however did a little flip and I reflexively retraced my steps back to that coveted pot of plain yoghurt. I made sure that it was in fact not flavoured, bunged it into my shopping basket and rushed to the till. 

Eating plain cold yoghurt on a freezing day is not even close to what an ideal winter meal would seem like, conjuring images of hot soups, pies and maybe even a tangy curry.  For me, plain yogurt reminded me of meals at home where hot rice topped with plain yogurt constituted our staple diet. A humble concoction of these two very simple ingredients lent the much-deserved balance to a meal otherwise rich in condiments and spices. It reminded me of meals cooked with love, of shared experiences, unending conversations and laughter.

So on that cold winter’s day in London, I made my way back to my flat as fast as the snow laden roads allowed me to and cooked some plain rice on the hob. Then, with something akin to reverence, I scooped up a dollop of plain yoghurt and placed it on the mound of rice on my plate. 

That spoonful of rice and yoghurt which I relished, was divine. It was then that I felt like I truly belonged to the present, to my life as an immigrant in a foreign land. 

It wasn’t the cold yoghurt in itself but the warmth associated with its memories that provided a small yet significant anchor for my life in a new land. 

Fast forward 12 years and I can see how my kids seek out plain yoghurt and rice as their comfort food. Their association with the motherland will be through its symbolic representation. What better way than food to establish this very significant connection?