Blog Post #1: Come now, gather 'round the table.

Food is in my blood. Pungent auras, luring spices, and exotic concoctions trickle through my veins and circulate throughout my bloodstream. It all started in the womb; my mother fed me a fair share of these volatile rations in order to prepare my taste buds for the experiences that lay ahead. She never gave mercy or held back because the piquant flavors would not return that favor. Early on, I identified food with my family; no matter where I found myself in the world, it was my sole link to the ones I love the most.

Food is my family’s palette. Various herbs and spices are believed to cure all sorts of injuries and sicknesses with the sensations they rupture into the sickened bodies. Food provided the income of several family members through catering and restaurant businesses giving them the leisure of running their own agendas and sharing their food with the rest of the community. It was even used as a weapon. My mother punished my brother and me with red chili pepper when she heard us utter any type of profanity. The quaint adage, wash your mouth with soap, did not ever cross my mother’s mind. My brother and I ran from our mother all throughout the house as she chased us down to chug the spiciest chili she could find down our throats. When I was young, chili was the devil without the goatee and pitchfork. Both my brother and I can endorse this method to be highly more effective than washing out a dirty mouth with soap.

My father’s family owned a well known chicken noodle soup shop in Muar, Johor, Malaysia. It was located five minutes away from their small, wooden house where my grandparents’ devised their coveted recipes. And on the other spectrum of my family, my mother’s side, every woman holds some form of culinary art. I have yet to prove myself and, as of now, I am the exception as well as the discreditable case. And nothing, absolutely nothing, can distract any of these women from the stove. My uncle told me that when he was young, he saw my grandmother kill a rat with her own bare feet as it passed by her while she was frying noodles in a pan. No one was allowed in the kitchen when she was at work. No exceptions.

In Malaysia, food dictates the culture. All the talk about the major holidays is never satiated without the mention of the food to be served. Eating out is affordable and very common. A three course meal can be found at anytime of the day. There is always a mamak stall open doing its good deed of serving those who seek for food at the darkest hour of the night. Having lived outside of my country of origin for a large portion of my life, it is food that has always been a comforting reminder of where I am from. Malaysian food remains a nostalgic euphoria; my proud knowledge of this cuisine and boastful ability to describe tom yam soup, whose spices are so salivating and, yet, has a malicious ability to choke me with its stinging flavor if I gulp its numb-warming contents too savagely, make up for my ignorance of the other aspects of the complex culture. The red lava of the chili absorbing the anchovies in the nasi lemak erupting in my mouth launches me back to the humid dining room in my grandparent’s single story house. As I continue to devour on the coconut drenched rice, my mind envisages my grandmother painting the dinner table with the vibrant colors of the meal as the family frames the table. Food beckoned each and every one of our stomachs to the table and, this, later excelled us to fill the room with provincial chatter, bursts of laughter, and beaming faces. Here, at the dinner table, I am nestled in the folds of the love of my family with a satisfied tummy.

As I began to realize food’s role in keeping me in tune with my culture and family, I also discovered an even greater impact food had that was beyond me; an impact that could bond together anyone, anywhere on the globe. This surreal aptitude found in virtually any victuals from a large, succulent thanksgiving turkey basted in its own pool of broth with a dose of herb butter to a simple finger snack such as potato chips. “Potato Chips?” one may ask. Yes, potato chips. For instance, take Lay’s potato chips: salty, saturated fat goodness. “Mmmm betcha can’t eat just one!” Other than its nutritional contents and its catch phrase, Lay’s potato chips have been doing missionary work for years. It has converted people from all over the globe to its creed of munching and snacking. The Turks enjoy potato chips when they’re not eating their thick, juicy lamb kabobs or sweet, flakey layers of baklava while the English set a few chips neatly beside their fish and tea, and don’t forget the pit bowls of potatoes chips centered in all American living rooms during the football season. Food not only connects me to my ethnic root; it crafts this unfathomable interconnectivity present in this world, which breaks the barriers of culture, language, and tradition that transcend us as humans.

This interconnectivity created by food can be found everywhere; for example, buffets. I love them. It is not just the variety of numerous appetizers, main course dishes, or fountains of desserts that giddy me up every time I step into a Sweet Tomatoes or Golden Coral. It is my moment to lose all inhibition. It doesn’t matter who sees me and I don’t really care to look up from my plate. I can feel trashy and fat without caring because everyone else is doing the same thing.

If I could tell my food a small little story before I gobble them up, I probably would. I would tell my food how much I appreciate its presence in my life. But, since there is really no point in talking to my food, all I have to do is savor every bite and hope the next one is just as good.

-Zulaikha