Aunties at the park

regional cuisines in a California suburb (Indian foodways, part three)

I was going to write about regional cuisines and Indian restaurants in the diaspora, or as some may say, the lack of regional nuances in a restaurant scene inextricably tied to the threads of colonialism. It’s a topic I’m excited to learn about, especially after living with my uncle’s family in India Square for the past month. India Square is a vibrant street in Jersey City, lined with Indian restaurants and shops. From dosas to parathas to chaat, the street covers impressive ground. I posted this video of my favorite meal here so far and the comments affirmed that I am very lucky to be here. 

Anyways, I realized I need more time to understand the spread of Indian cuisine beyond the subcontinent and why several regional cuisines aren’t highlighted in the restaurant scene. This got me thinking of how I learned about regional cuisines as a girl in a California suburb, with parents who cooked in the style of a few regions at most. I landed on the first food essay I ever wrote: a loving reflection about the women who raised me and fed me. And since it was my first personal food essay, written to wallow in nostalgia and paint a picture, it’s probably dramatic and packed with food writing clichés, but I’m mostly proud of it.

squad is in formation to look for plastic eggs in bushes

This marks the end of September’s series about Indian foodways, but there is plenty to say outside of this series. Writing this series just felt like the perfect way to ease into writing, rebuilding the habit while having some fun. Moving forward, I want to expand on the state of veganism in India with a cross-cultural analysis. I want to do some deep dives, as focusing on one ingredient or recipe may often reveal more than darting around a topic as broad as cultural appropriation. And I would absolutely love to dissect the controversy around using the word “curry,” which is what I meant to start this week, but it felt more apt to end a series that has largely focused on Indian food in the diaspora with a personal note about straddling two cultures. 

Aunties of Ortega Park

Venture through Ortega Park on a sunny Friday afternoon and you may encounter a crowd of Indian women, laughing and chatting while serving ladles of food to kids wearing Gap t-shirts and plenty of sunscreen. Just a few hours earlier, we were the kids who were bummed to open our cartoon-adorned lunchboxes and find cold parathas filled with last night’s aloo (potatoes) or bhindi (okra). Yet at the park next to Stocklmeir Elementary, we delighted in the warm fare served by six mothers who may not pack Lunchables, but sure did know how to cook. 

On the wooden tables sits a floral Corelle casserole dish holding my mother’s famous dahi vada: a sweet and savory appetizer of fried lentil dumplings soaked in thick yogurt and drizzled with cilantro-mint chutney and tamarind date chutney. At Ortega Park, the delicacies that I never appreciated enough at home were quickly inhaled by my friends. I gave dahi vada another chance after noting the speed at which my friends requested seconds, but arrived at the conclusion that I’m not amused by the shock of a golden raisin in the middle of a bite. It’s like an oatmeal raisin cookie; it has character and complexity, yet you may not realize it at a young age. 

Regardless of my questionable distaste for dahi vada, I appreciated the other aunties’ dishes in ways that their kids may not have. My mother’s friends emigrated from Andhra Pradesh in South India, where dosas, tamarind, and coconut-based dishes prevail, to Punjab in North India, where the paneer and dal dishes more closely resembled rich, velvety gravies we see in Indian-American restaurants. The park is where my adventurous taste buds gloriously absorbed flavors of dishes my mother did not usually prepare in our Bihari household.

While everyone’s cooking shaped my taste buds, these gatherings were also a reminder of the fact that my mother’s cooking is forever my favorite. Objectively, she is not the most creative cook—that title goes to Swapna aunty—nor is she the most consistently satisfactory cook—that would be Alka aunty, who seems constantly prepared to greet guests with aloo gobi and kala chana. But she’s my mother and the chana masala she makes with ginger as the sole aromatic and a black tea bag seeped in simply doesn’t compare to any other chana masala I’ve ever had.

I can’t seem to elaborately describe the menu at a particular gathering. You know how they say odors directly travel to regions of the brain that are linked to emotions and memories? Well, when you sniff a trail of garam masala and soothingly familiar whole spices, it will take you to more than one occasion. When I try to recall the food served at my 11th birthday party, my mind wanders to other moments with my mother’s friends; women who have become aunts to me and sisters to my mom in a country where she doesn’t have her family around her.

I think of Swapna aunty’s mango chicken and mapo tofu, which she delivered way past my dinner time because she knew how much I loved her homemade takes on cuisines that my mother did not attempt. Other times, she would be late to the meeting spot at the fence dividing our apartment complexes, but prepared with a pyrex of piping hot saalan paired with a sweet Maharashtrian flatbread called puran poli that I preferred to eat only with fiery gravies. It made up for the fact that I would eat dinner an hour later than usual while feeling 50% hangrier. 

I think of Ashu aunty’s rajma chawal, an aromatic kidney bean stew served with rice, which always preceded the playdates where Aarya and I pretended we were Harry Potter’s mafia-busting twin sisters. I hated kaddu (green pumpkin) at home, yet I didn’t hate her kaddu. Unlike me, Ashu aunty carries an “eat to live” mentality, which means that I could always rely on something simple yet satisfying from her. 

I think of Rimple aunty’s broad smile when she asked if we would like some more of her Rooh Afza drink, a refreshing rosy concoction that mentally takes you to the pool on a summer day. Of all the aunties, she is the most enthusiastic about hosting throngs of people for a five-course meal. Meanwhile, Vani aunty decorated almost all of my birthday parties, making me the coolest kid on the block every year. I went to her house to have pesarattu (green moong dosas) and sambar. 

an example of a decorated birthday party, chilly like January

I think of waking up in Ruhi’s room after a tireless night of belting Beyoncé’s “Halo” and all things Hannah Montana. Sushma aunty presents me with cold Cheerios with the cereal poured first, a major contrast to my mother’s warm cereal with the milk poured first. Needless to say, my cereal philosophy changed drastically after that moment, to my mother’s dismay. 

When I think of the women who raised me, the memories mesh together. As I grew older, these gatherings often became a source of embarrassment. I’d silently pray that none of my classmates scootered by on these seemingly random weekday afternoons and assumed that I only had Indian friends or that our mothers didn’t have careers. By the time I reckoned with why I felt embarrassed, several years had passed and our families had dispersed from Sunnyvale. In our group of ten kids and six mothers, only a few remain in Sunnyvale. Others, including my parents, moved to the outskirts of Fremont or San Jose, where they were able to purchase homes that were ever-so-slightly less affected by the burgeoning real estate prices, yet still close enough for our fathers to commute to their tech companies. 

I only see my playdate partners and the aunties a couple times a year now. Sometimes my mom facilitates a call so I can ask about their chutney recipes, which they happily provide. I’ve even gotten a chance to cook for some of them, impressing them with what I learned from them, but my food isn’t quite at aunty-level. Yet. As I explore my heritage through my own cooking, I’m back at Ortega Park: where I inhaled family recipes from all across India, unaware of my rare opportunity to revel in a truly subcontinental experience while staying seated in our pocket of a California suburb.

mini spice rack

reading

Still A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry. 

I also came across this essay by

Devin Kate Pope

about what popularity in the US does to an ingredient. After writing last week’s reflection on cultural appropriation, this felt like the kind of conversation I was looking for. 

listening

Started listening to Chappell Roan. “Greedy” by Tate McRae has a chokehold over me right now, partly because some those tube girl videos are such a slay. Also started listening to the Song Exploder podcast, which has rich archives to browse. Started with this episode on “Stick Season” because it has been a dreary few days.

eating

Soya chaap masala. Homemade pizza. Baonanas coconut chip, a whipped treat inspired by leche flan, a Filipino staple. A bunch of stuff from the temple: bisi bele bath (my fav), tamarind rice, and mirchi bhaji. And more from India Square: three types of parathas from Paratha Junction and an aloo matar sandwich from Nandoo’s. 

Next week is the monthly spice rack, which always gives me some much-appreciated time to rest, play, and consider what’s next. If you have any questions or ideas you’d like me to address in “extra spice,” you can drop a line here!