Allergies: Nuting I Can’t Handle

Allergies:NutingI Can’t Handle

BY ANUSHA MATHUR PHOTO BY ALAINA CHOU

Istared straight ahead at the bold red “Emergency Room Check-In” sign, trying to take my mind off the tingly sensation at the back of my throat and the itchiness of the hives covering my body. All of a sudden, my head felt heavy and my surroundings became more and more like one of Monet’s impressionist landscapes. The colors blurred together until I lost control of my body and dropped to the floor. A minute later, I felt a nurse hastily insert an IV drip into my forearm as my dad stabbed my leg with a second dose of epinephrine.

Last year, it took less than a fourth of a pine nut for me to lose consciousness and wake up on a hospital bed. As someone who loves food, having a nut allergy has hindered my adventurous self. Whether it be trying authentic Singaporean food when I travel abroad to visit my cousins or eating at a local Chinese restaurant with my friends, there is always a worry in the back of my head that the chef might forget to leave off the walnuts or accidentally cross contaminate with pistachio in their busy kitchen.

When I was eight, a small lump used to form in my throat every time I was offered birthday cake but had to say “No thank you,” because there was no dietary label. Relatives and family friends at gatherings would ask with a hurt expression on their face, “Oh you don’t like the food?” when they saw that I was avoiding certain dishes. I felt guilty about not being able to eat my great-aunt’s signature cashew chicken curry or almond paneer.

But, I now realize that having allergies has taught me valuable life lessons. I have had to speak up for myself since elementary school, as I inquired about ingredients in the cafeteria lunch line, on every field trip, and at friends’ houses when their parents offered me snacks. I also learned to be conscious about what goes into my body and how to adapt recipes. In restaurants, you seldom find Kung Pao chicken without peanuts, pesto without pine nuts, or Chinese chicken salad without almonds. Every dish I create is flexible. My family’s kitchen is always fully stocked with sunflower seeds, oats, raisins, pumpkin seeds, and granola so that I can enjoy the salty flavor and crunchy texture of nuts in my adapted way.

Most importantly, having food allergies has taught me empathy. When my friend was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes at 16, I was the first person she first told. Every day before lunch I would sit with her as she took her blood sugar and injected herself with insulin. I related to her struggle of constantly needing to be aware of what she put into her body.

When I was 13, my cheeks flushed with embarrassment as I carried an epipen with me into the middle school dance. I wish I could go back to moments like these and tell my younger self not to be self-conscious. Seeing me carry around my epipen would later help my friend feel comfortable doing the same with her insulin.

I often think about what I would do if I someday overcome my allergies. Although I would be excited to expand my flavor profile and try new foods without the fear of ending up hospitalized, I know that I will never forget the lessons that I learned from being disciplined about what goes in my body and vigilant about ensuring my safety.

golden Hours & Summer Corn

BY DHIVYA ARASAPPAN ILLUSTRATION BY OLIVIA TANG

Corn isn’t native to India. It doesn’t appear in traditional Indian curries and flavored rice the way that carrots, peas, and other non-native foods have been. But growing up in the US, I was a true corn lover. On a warm summer evening, there was nothing better than eating freshly grilled corn on the deck with a little butter, a little salt, and a whole lotta pepper. But boy, was I wrong. American corn on the cob, it turned out, had nothing on the Indian street food version. Every two or three years, we made a big trip to India to visit our grandparents and all manner of extended family we could never keep straight. But when I was nine years old and my parents had to return home early, my brother and I had a whole month with our grandparents who were entirely too content to spoil us rotten. And this would be the summer that I finally discovered how the Chennai street food scene transformed corn on the cob into an entirely different beast. Life was slow on our little third-floor apartment just off the main road. Thayi, my grandmother, took every meal as an opportunity to stuff us full of authentic south Indian cooking. Every day was a series of dosas, and idlis, sambars, chutneys, new veggies, and all the south Indian fried sweets you could possibly think of. My grandfather had a different way of doing things. Just as the sun began to recede in the afternoon, my thatha unlocked the gates, revved up his motorbike, and brought it around to the front steps of the apartment, kicking up dust. My brother was nestled in front, and I held on tight to my grandfather, only a tiny bit afraid I might fall off. Thatha was known for being on the stricter side as a university professor. But something about spending time with his grandkids during those golden afternoons made him throw all that out the window. So we careened around street corners and sped past flashing street lights because even my grandfather could be persuaded to ignore traffic lights on occasion. We took in the afternoon warmth of Chennai’s streets and brush of air on our faces, ruffling through my unruly black curls. Ca-caw! Ca-caw! Crows rode the currents above our heads as we took in the salty ocean air and Thatha eased the motorcycle into the only spot we could find. And of course, we were close enough to see the stalls selling hot coffee and tea, fresh coconut water, ice cream, fried peanuts, bajji, and of course, the best corn anywhere. But food had to wait. The seashells were calling my name. I kicked off my sandals, dug my feet into the soft sand, and quickly made my way to the edge of the water to look for interesting shells. And over the course of the evening, my brother and I built sandcastles and splashed in the water, snuck up on unsuspecting birds, erupted into “accidental” sand throwing fights and took turns burying each other until it was dark and we were shivering from the breeze. Time flew away from us amidst the laughter and smiles, as gritty sand covered every inch of our sun-soaked bodies. But really, the best part was yet to come. Stomachs empty and growling, we walked over to a food cart piled high with raw corn and mango with a nearby open flame that bathed our faces in orange-red light. I felt the heat on my cheeks as I inched closer to the fire. The vendor skillfully shucked off the corn’s green outer covering part way so we could hold on to the cob. Once it was done roasting, he dusted each and every kernel with an oh-so-savory masala powder made of red chile pepper, salt, black pepper, and cumin powder. What a magical combination. Of course, in the face of my eagerness, I burnt my tongue more times than I could count. But it was worth it, and before I knew it, I was huffing and puffing, sweating from the spicy heat of the corn that made my mouth water in ways I never knew it could. This was corn on the cob. And all it needed was some heat. As a last adieu to our time at the beach, we’d march into a local ice cream shop, our clothes dripping sand and water on the floor, but we didn’t care. Thatha bought us ice cream—the ones where chocolate lined the cones, a little bit pooling at the bottom—to cool off our tongues on the ride back home.