My food is not weird.
I first set food on fire when I was four. My mom and I were making gulab jamun and being the talkative kid I am, I distracted my mom until the oil on the stove set on fire.
The first food I made by myself was shavige uppit, a recipe my mom had taught me the week before. It was such a source of pride for her.
I used to make chapatis with my mom and grandmother, flipping the roti on the flat thava while they rolled out the aata. My mom, in her attempt to get more spinach in our diet, used to blend spinach puré into the chapati. That green roti prompted a lot of judgment as a kid.
I learned how to make homemade butter from buffalo milk with my grandfather and how to make coconut burfi with my late grandmother. I learned how to make zucchini wada from my dad and my mom taught me how to make dosa.
Jackfruit reminds of my late grandfather, who would painstakingly cut the fruit and then give the scraps to the cows that wandered past our house. Puliogre reminds me of my grandmother, who always gave us food with love.
These foods are my culture, my memories, my childhood. How can they be weird?
