The Emotion of Food

THE

emotion

OF FOOD

BY ANNA BROWN

When I was twelve my Ammachi (grandmother) taught me how to make pidi, a dish from Kerala that consists of rice balls cooked in a thick, starchy rice gravy. It was the first time I had ever heard of pidi, and I was determined to help. I remember her sitting at the dining table, rolling out the dough effortlessly with one hand and animatedly talking to my mom. “Don’t think about it, just squeeze the dough and release” she would tell me, laughing at my frustration. My Ammachi was always sitting at the dining table. Sometimes she would be hacking away at some tapioca for that night’s kappa puzhukku, other times she would be wrestling some jackfruit from the backyard for some chacka ada, but she was always sitting comfortably in her chair at the head of the table.

As the years went by, she would stop hacking away at tapioca at the dining table. As she grew weaker, she would start giving instructions from her chair. “Add some of the chilies.” “Soak the tamarind.” “That isn’t enough salt.” To this day I don’t know how she always knew when there wasn’t enough salt without tasting it. There were many things Ammachi knew that I was amazed by. She knew exactly which banana blossoms were ready to be plucked. She knew which coconuts would have tender flesh. She knew how to tell if the fish brought to our doorstep by the fishmonger was fresh. She could tell you what type of banana the tree would form. She knew exactly when the jackfruit would ripen and fall. She could tell you if a rambutan would be sweet before peeling the shell. She could tell when the tapioca harvest was ready. Then suddenly, she wasn’t there to tell me if there was enough salt anymore. No one sat at the head of the dining table anymore. The tapioca would be harvested and given away. The banana blossoms would bloom and no one would pluck them. The jackfruits in our backyard would ripen and fall and no one would care.

PHOTO: Anna Brown Eight years later I stood in my kitchen trying to make pidi. It was a simple dish. Mix some hot water flavored with cumin with some rice flour and salt. Then knead. Yet, as I kneaded the dough trying to recreate it from memory, I couldn’t help but think that I was doing it all wrong. I tried to remember her advice: “Don’t think about it, just squeeze the dough and release.” But no matter how hard I tried they would never come out as round or as smooth as hers did. When I was done, I felt an immense loneliness. My pidi would never taste the same as hers.

But as I sat and ate, I couldn’t help but feel at home. I felt a warmth inside me, an incomprehensible, bittersweet joy.

My pidi may not taste the same as hers, but I will never not think of her when I eat pidi. When I eat pidi, I remember the dining table. I remember my Ammachi sitting at the head of the table in her chair. I remember her hacking away at the tapioca, wrestling with the jackfruit. I remember her telling me there isn’t enough salt in that. I remember her walking through the backyard picking out banana blossoms. I remember her. And I find comfort in that.