What Does Your Food Memory Mean to You?

I’m 56, and if I listed every food trend I’ve survived—every cleanse, fast, detox, guilt trip, and “clean eating” attempt—I could probably fill a library. I’ve counted calories and blessings, avoided carbs and then run back to them, tried to be “good” with food in every way the world taught me to be.

But when I truly sit with myself and ask what food means to me—not nutritionally, not trend-wise, but soul-wise—a very different answer surfaces.

Food is not about rules. It never was.

Food is memory. Food is connection. Food is life, plated.

And when I trace my life through food, I don’t just see dishes—I see faces, places, and people I still carry inside me. I see friendships, laughter, rebellion, care, comfort, joy. I see all the parts of myself I loved most—and sometimes forgot.

I grew up in Azad Nagar, in a traditional Jain home where food followed rules: no onion, no garlic, no eggs. Our thalis were full of devotion. Every bite had calmness and care. But even as a little girl, I felt something stirring in me—a hunger not for more food, but for more flavour. Not a rejection of tradition, but a gentle curiosity about what lay beyond it.

Just next door lived Meena Tailor, our neighbour, and the first person who let me taste that curiosity. Her kitchen was alive—garlic popping in oil, onions turning golden, masalas clouding the air like incense. I’d go over “just to say hi,” and sit there as she stirred her sabzis with stories. She never judged, never questioned. And I never forgot the thrill. Her food was bold, and so was I.

I’d even smuggle boiled eggs into our house sometimes, hidden deep in my schoolbag. Not because I needed to eat them in secret, but because it felt like saying yes to the world—to taste, to rebellion, to mischief and magic.

But food, for me, was never just defiance. It was love in its most sincere, joyful, generous form.

In school, food meant salted peanuts hidden in blazer pockets, shared during book cricket with Heena. It meant racing to the canteen for batata vadas soaked in that sticky, dark imli chutney that always ran down our wrists. Our tongues burned, our eyes watered, and we went back for more every single day.

And outside Bhavan’s College? Oh, those sandwiches. Greasy, overstuffed, toasted to golden perfection. A bite of freedom between lectures, shared among friends who all knew the value of good street food and good gossip.

 At home in Azad Nagar, there was the iconic vada pav stall—quick, fiery, reliable. It wasn’t just food. It was identity. My identity. Our neighbourhood in a bite.

And once a week, like clockwork, came our big family outing. We’d go to Swadesh for paper dosa—crispy, the length of the table, served with coconut chutney and steaming sambar. It felt like a festival every time. And afterward, a movie at Navrang theatre. That combination—dosa and drama—was the heartbeat of my childhood weekends.

Some memories glow quietly, like warm light on skin.

One of those is Aai—our neighbour. She may not have been a relative in the traditional sense, but she was our family in every meaningful way. One night, I couldn’t sleep. Something weighed heavy in my chest. I went to her home at 1 a.m. She opened the door, no surprise in her eyes, and without a word, handed me a bowl of dahi bhaat.

But not just any dahi bhaat.

Her curd was unlike any other. Thick enough to slice, creamy enough to soothe, and topped with the faint crackle of mustard seeds. She didn’t give me advice that night. She gave me silence. Deep, peaceful silence, wrapped in the most profound love only food can communicate.

And I cook too. I always have.

Feeding people is how I express love. It’s how I remember who I am. I don’t need praise—I just need you to eat with joy. And my son—oh, he’s taken it forward like an art form. The way he cooked during COVID—layering lasagna, folding quesadillas, making pizza from scratch—was not just impressive. It was emotional. It reminded me that this bond we have with food, with flavour, with care—it’s not learned. It’s inherited. It runs in our veins.

They say I was born with Goddess Annapurna’s blessings.

Maybe I was. But that’s a separate story.

What about you? What stories does your food tell? What memories does it hold? Share your experiences in the comments below—I’d love to hear them.

After all, food is never just a meal. It’s the story of us all.