Maybe I do not even need to mention that food is my greatest joy. When everything goes wrong, I am clear that food will never disappoint me. No matter how high the flames of fire are, one good does of glorious food can do the due. Please do not judge me for saying this but I sometimes place food above people. Yes, people have the tendency to make you sad but a bag of french fries will never fail to bring a smile to your face. Such is the value of food in mine and if you must know your life too.
It does not end here, to be honest. My love for food also brings more to my plate, not just piping hot biryani.
We associate food not only with what tantalizes our taste buds but also the aroma that brings all our senses to the life we had never experienced. This is why when we miss certain food items that our mother cooked back in our childhood basically we want to revive those memories we cherish to date.
By the way, probably it is not the best time to write this piece as I had my dinner some time ago and reminiscing food is probably not the best thought. But then, do I and you have a choice? I reckon not.
You could probably consider my mum a pro when it came to making the store fried somewhat dry mincemeat with peas. Coming from Pakistan where the highlight of our cuisine is majorly non-vegetarian food, my mum was quite fond of the peas pilaf with potato cutlets coated with crispy gram flour. Ramadan felt incomplete without gram flour and potato fritters called pakoras. She would add spinach for that extra zing and probably oomph. Our home was more roti than rice-based hence only Sundays meant chicken pilaf for lunch. Rest, she preferred making roti with traditional Pakistani curries.
She was quite a simpleton unlike her brat daughter when it came to food. To my mum, the sole purpose of food was to fill the stomach and not become a matter of life and death. Whenever our dad travelled to his village, mum would prefer not cooking the traditional meals keeping her kitchen routine as simple as possible. Sandwiches and snacks were the routine meal as the routine would come to halt for a few days.
Here I must also make this little confession. I was not always fond of her food.
But today as I sit in this cold apartment a thousand miles away from my mum’s warm living room with thick curtains and green walls, I miss the food she made. It is uncanny that I cannot help thinking about her food at this ungodly hour. I should probably be sinking into bed falling fast asleep dreaming about the forests I have never been to. But all I can think of is the somewhat dry mincemeat my mum would prepare every now and then. Maybe I do not miss the food. Maybe I miss mum only. Maybe. Who knows!