Personal Anecdote and Going for a Brit
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As I was reading Mannur’s and Buettner’s works, I started thinking about my own relationship with food and if I had some nostalgic relationship with it despite not being a migrant myself. I was always a picky eater as a kid. My mom always said I was like D.W. from D.W. the Picky Eater (it was coincidentally also one of my favourite books as a kid). I was constantly bickering with my mom about not wanting to eat kofte, dolma, fasulye aysekadin, but instead wanting to eat meals like macaroni, pizza and everything my white friends were eating. I sort of felt ashamed of what I ate at home and for lunch. My friends’ sandwiches were filled with that bright orange American cheese and ham, while mine were filled with tomatoes and feta. The worst thing I ever experienced was when my lahana tursusu (pickled cabbage) spilled in my lunch box and a classmate would not stop complaining about the smell and made exaggerated facial expressions (it did not even smell bad). It’s not that I disliked the flavour of what I ate, it was the fact that I did not want to be othered simply because of what I ate. I still spoke English and I still enjoyed the same things as my classmates. Funnily enough, when my mom started to make meals like shepherd’s pie and pre-made Campbell’s canned soup, I could not stand them. I actually missed my tomato and feta filled sandwiches, my manti, and my kofte. It was the only time I actually appreciated a “told you so” moment. Now, I proudly eat meals like chi kofte/kibbeh nayyeh and manti with garlicky yogurt. I also finally got to indulge in some delicious baklava 2-3 years ago; after being falsely told I was allergic to all nuts my entire life. You can image the pain 10-year-old me went through as my family happily ate some desserts while I just sat on the sidelines with a cracker and or sometimes nothing at all. That day I got to take a bite out of a walnut baklava from Mahrouse was like something out of Ratatouille. All this to say- this idealized version of nostalgia that Mannur mentions is not entirely bad. It helped me appreciate my cultural foods more, and the effort my mother (and now my sister) put into keeping our traditions alive. They would constantly uplift the flavours of our cultural meals, making them into something they probably weren't. But I do not dislike that type of hype, I truly appreciate it. I think my family does not suffer from melancholia because they were able to bring a bit of home to Canada/U.S.A, and the satisfaction of seeing their children indulge in the meals they also love is enough to wash away any sense of sadness. It shows how home is not a physical thing, but rather something more metaphorical. Some taplama doused in butter is much more homely to me than the couch in my living room because I can cherish the moment of rolling the dough with my grandma and the memories of my sister and I having butter all over our chins.
(I will confess however, that my picky eater tendencies have followed me into adulthood.)
Buettner’s discussion of “Going for an Indian” also sparked some interest for me. Claiming Tikka masala as a national British dish surprised me when I read it. Not only did the British Empire have a long history of colonization in South Asia (and basically the entire world), but their treatment of South Asians is also just atrocious. The British claim the food of South Asians as their own yet treat them with intolerance and racial prejudice. It was like Bald’s description of “Oriental goods” in Bengali Harlem, where Westerners would acquire these products from “Oriental” vendors, but racism and discrimination were still running rampant. The picking and choosing of elements of cultures makes my eyes roll to the very back of my head, and even that isn't enough to show off my annoyance. It shows how white settlers have this privilege that allows them to ransack as many countries as they like for their resources, but do not suffer from any consequences. They can proudly leech off of India, call chicken tikka masala their own national dish, and still have so much power. If a South Asian person said “Oh, I’m going for a Brit”, and got fish and chips, British nationalists would probably have a heart attack.