Love Through Food

Words by Sarah Salman

Essay | Issue 02

I was 10 years old when I first witnessed, ‘ love through food’. I wish there was a fancy term I could use to describe it. Something that makes it to Wikipedia or makes waves on Tumblr. But, in Pakistan, love through food is not spoken about in verbal words. Rather, it is shown through non-verbal acts.

I believe Pakistan is the only country, where you might expect an apology in the form of food rather than long speeches and paragraphs – where sorry becomes a repeated word. Say it too frequently and it loses it meaning. I think generations of Pakistanis have understood that now.

I spent years listening to my daado (grandmother) talk about lost connections and deranged relatives she did not speak to. Of people who were once part of every gathering, but had no place in our home now. And yet, every year on Eid, those same relatives would step foot in our home and it was like all the anger was washed away with a warm cup of tea. “Have some chai”, would translate to: I miss your presence in our home, “don’t go home without dessert” would mean, let us not part without mending what was broken.

It takes a lot of cooking to know the language of love. I know this because my mother spent years learning the language. Being a Filipina who moved to Pakistan, Urdu wasn’t her strongest forte; but her way of chopping vegetables a certain way for my father, making potato cutlets, topped with crushed coriander and peeling sour Kiwis with a sprinkle of sugar for me always said more than words ever could. Every time she would sprinkle salt over a scrumptious pot of butter chicken, it was like she was sprinkling her own love into it.

“The food is perfect.” My father would say to my mother whenever she inquired about the taste. Sometimes, he would only nod and smile and she would smile back in reply; almost like they had their own language of communication.

It was only recently that I realized the meaning behind those words and gestures.

You know me well. I appreciate the hours you spent in the kitchen. You can never disappoint me with your cooking.

I’ve always teased my sister for being a bad cook. “We could play ping pong with how hard those Gulab Jamuns (a sweet) are,” I would say and giggle hysterically. But now that she’s married, she often visits and silently cooks a hot serving of white sauce pasta, mixed with the most random ingredients such as leftover chicken nuggets. The pasta has now become a conversation starter – an ice breaker where we spend hours, munching on plate after plate of mouth-melting pasta. I don’t have to tell my sister that she’s a good cook; she can feel it just from how the words flow out of my mouth as I update her about my life while licking my plate clean.

At funerals, the first order of business is to make sure everyone’s stomachs are full. It is almost bittersweet to think of a full stomach when someone you loved has passed away; but someone once said,

If you’re sad, get some rest

If you’re still sad, drink some water.

If the sadness fails to go away, then your body needs food.

It has become the philosophy of life for us; something that extends to moments of grievance as well. At funerals, we hold our family close, and our plates of biryani and cups of chai closer. Through the wails and tears, you’ll regularly hear whispers of, “kuch khaalo beta” (Eat something, child), which, if you live in Pakistan, can be comforting as warm hands feed you small nibbles of naan bread and rice with curry. Of course food can’t heal the pain, but it can offer some solace, a reminder that there are loved ones around you.

We wash down stressful days with boiling hot cups of chai, no matter how hot the weather may be. Whenever my father complains of a headache, I know to step into the kitchen and prepare him a cup of tea. I don’t offer words of comfort, that isn’t the language we speak. But I make sure to put in just the right amount of sugar into his tea. Which is enough of a comfort to him. It speaks more than words ever could, maybe. As I place the cup of tea next to him, he won’t take his eyes off the cricket match he’s watching, but he will sit up straight and whisper a small thank you.

When we visit people to celebrate their new home, you can bet on the fact that you’ll find a fancy porcelain bowl being carried carefully – filled to the brim with spicy chicken curry, topped with chopped almonds that float and swim in the pool of oil. Because the more oil you pour in, the more love you have for someone in Pakistan. We take our oil quantities seriously after all.

As a 23-year-old, I finally understand it now. Ask me what deep, life-changing conversations I had with my family over the weekend, and I’ll probably be only able to name two – three at most. But if you ask me about the kind of food my youngest sister likes, how much sugar my mother prefers in her cup of coffee, what kind of fruits my older sister despises; and I can go on for hours and hours. I can tell you exactly how many times I’ve shared a bowl of noodles with my best friends, as we sat up on the roof, the breeze blowing our noodles cold – so many secrets spilled in between slurps of soupy chicken noodles.

Such is the philosophy and way of life in Pakistan.

Sarah Salman is a 23-year-old who is trying to navigate through life, one written story at a time. She is an avid reader, and coffee inhaler, living vicariously through romance k-dramas. While she may not have a lot of words to spill, she is fluent in the art of communication through words. She lives in Karachi, Pakistan; but has experienced so much more through connections