These first few sentences may elicit some gasps of horror and disapproval, but I don't think the most important thing in the world is to eat all things locally grown, organic, and non-GMO. I believe in living practically, which for my family, means eating relatively healthy foods and eating out when our schedules become unmanageably busy. We don't prioritize making or eating foods that might be seen as overly complicated or sophisticated. Making food involves a true labor of love, something that brings people together as a community to laugh, share stories, and make everlasting memories. To me, food is an emotion-evoking experience, not necessarily associated with the sophistication of tastes or gourmet presentation, but connecting with the love and the light of those around us, those we most truly cherish. Food can serve as a heartfelt gift, a token of gratitude, or even a gesture of asking forgiveness, and can be a central part of any family function or major holiday.
Growing up in a Bengali household in Texas, I was mostly exposed to traditional east Indian dishes. Daily, my mother would cook remarkably delicious, but balanced, meals for the family, leaving the kids to periodically peel the garlic. (I think it was a pretty fair chore, given what trouble we could have gotten into otherwise.) Although my mother made most of these meals out of necessity to feed her family, at times, she would prepare our favorite dishes to celebrate special occasions, such as birthdays or religious holidays. Our house always smelled like Indian spices growing up. I never really noticed this, of course, because...well, I lived at home and became accustomed to its natural aroma. It wasn't until a close friend from elementary school came over once and she pointed out that my house just "smelled different...nothing bad [apparently], just different" that I realized this was true. I still brought applesauce and sandwiches in my lunchbox every day, but when we came home from school, rice, dal, and fish curry awaited us for our evening meal. Slowly, as my family became more assimilated to American culture, my mother started cooking more Western-style foods since we seemed to prefer them at the time. But we still predominantly grew up eating Bengali food.
As with other south Asian families, I also distinctly remember my parents frequently hosting our Bengali friends, our family away from family, for weekend dinners. I always loved these dinner parties because it meant my mother would drive to the local halal meat shop to pick up several pounds of goat (patha) to stew for several hours before dinner. It also meant we would have all sorts of treats we didn't normally have, like fried maacher chop (fish patties) with freshly made chutneys, begun bhaja (fried eggplant), chicken curry, alu posto (potatoes with poppy seeds), and payesh (milk-based pudding). Whoever hosted always made the food, but all of the families would take turns in having everyone else over. These "family" gatherings played in an important role in our lives since we had very few extended family members in the States. I grew up calling these people "Mashi" (aunt) and "Mesho" (uncle) and their kids were "Didi" (sister) and "Dada" (brother) if they were older than me.
My mother played a prominent role in our day-to-day lives growing up. She dropped me off at band practices, made my lunches every day, and took me to get school supplies. So naturally, when I left for college, she "overnighted" me packages to my dorm containing freshly made sandesh (milk-based Bengali sweet) and other snacks. Any time I traveled home for a weekend, I would return with a whole suitcase of aloo paratha (potato flatbread), aloor chop (potato patties), pathar mangsho (goat curry), and tandoori chicken. Let's just say I never went hungry. This trend continued into graduate school, and actually continues to this day (and has now, by extension, included my husband), even though we are both working full time and are fully capable of making our own meals. What she does is clearly a genuine labor of love that I cannot, and will not, ever say no to. Plus, she's an excellent cook.
As I've grown older, I have begun to realize the importance of preserving recipes for these meals I so treasure. Seeing my mother prepare meals from a young age has fostered my own love of cooking. I have been lucky that she has taught me so many of the basics of Bengali cooking. Along the way, and especially after marrying my half-Japanese, half-Jewish (Jewpanese) husband, I've also developed my own culinary style and often incorporate foods of other cultures into the meals I prepare.
In writing this book, though, I hope to share some recipes for (mostly) Bengali fare my family loves and often shares with others. I hope to weave in some of my, and my parents', favorite family memories periodically. Enjoy!
Growing up in a Bengali household in Texas, I was mostly exposed to traditional east Indian dishes. Daily, my mother would cook remarkably delicious, but balanced, meals for the family, leaving the kids to periodically peel the garlic. (I think it was a pretty fair chore, given what trouble we could have gotten into otherwise.) Although my mother made most of these meals out of necessity to feed her family, at times, she would prepare our favorite dishes to celebrate special occasions, such as birthdays or religious holidays. Our house always smelled like Indian spices growing up. I never really noticed this, of course, because...well, I lived at home and became accustomed to its natural aroma. It wasn't until a close friend from elementary school came over once and she pointed out that my house just "smelled different...nothing bad [apparently], just different" that I realized this was true. I still brought applesauce and sandwiches in my lunchbox every day, but when we came home from school, rice, dal, and fish curry awaited us for our evening meal. Slowly, as my family became more assimilated to American culture, my mother started cooking more Western-style foods since we seemed to prefer them at the time. But we still predominantly grew up eating Bengali food.
As with other south Asian families, I also distinctly remember my parents frequently hosting our Bengali friends, our family away from family, for weekend dinners. I always loved these dinner parties because it meant my mother would drive to the local halal meat shop to pick up several pounds of goat (patha) to stew for several hours before dinner. It also meant we would have all sorts of treats we didn't normally have, like fried maacher chop (fish patties) with freshly made chutneys, begun bhaja (fried eggplant), chicken curry, alu posto (potatoes with poppy seeds), and payesh (milk-based pudding). Whoever hosted always made the food, but all of the families would take turns in having everyone else over. These "family" gatherings played in an important role in our lives since we had very few extended family members in the States. I grew up calling these people "Mashi" (aunt) and "Mesho" (uncle) and their kids were "Didi" (sister) and "Dada" (brother) if they were older than me.
My mother played a prominent role in our day-to-day lives growing up. She dropped me off at band practices, made my lunches every day, and took me to get school supplies. So naturally, when I left for college, she "overnighted" me packages to my dorm containing freshly made sandesh (milk-based Bengali sweet) and other snacks. Any time I traveled home for a weekend, I would return with a whole suitcase of aloo paratha (potato flatbread), aloor chop (potato patties), pathar mangsho (goat curry), and tandoori chicken. Let's just say I never went hungry. This trend continued into graduate school, and actually continues to this day (and has now, by extension, included my husband), even though we are both working full time and are fully capable of making our own meals. What she does is clearly a genuine labor of love that I cannot, and will not, ever say no to. Plus, she's an excellent cook.
As I've grown older, I have begun to realize the importance of preserving recipes for these meals I so treasure. Seeing my mother prepare meals from a young age has fostered my own love of cooking. I have been lucky that she has taught me so many of the basics of Bengali cooking. Along the way, and especially after marrying my half-Japanese, half-Jewish (Jewpanese) husband, I've also developed my own culinary style and often incorporate foods of other cultures into the meals I prepare.
In writing this book, though, I hope to share some recipes for (mostly) Bengali fare my family loves and often shares with others. I hope to weave in some of my, and my parents', favorite family memories periodically. Enjoy!
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