Spice Trials and Trips
There were all these spices: turmeric, star anise, masala, mingling in hot air with the slightest differentiation, but still melting together in one pungent curry. The bright, orange-red chicken with the thick, gloopy sauce, paired with a fluffy piece of roti to wipe the whole plate clean was my siren song. My palate was already satisfied by the aroma the food was steaming with, but I had to ask: “There isn’t too much spice in this, right?”
“Oh, you can handle the spice, I didn’t put much pepper in it today,” demeaningly everyone glared at me, waiting for the burst of peppers and resentment to drive me away.
It was completely condescending, alienating me from who I thought I was–I was the Americanized one. With that comment, resentfully, I took the wooden spoon and scooped all the curry onto …show more content…
Instead, I descended into a new wave of confused citizens who don’t know where on the line between cultures they fell. Not quite Indian, yet not quite American, there were crumbs of both were scattered throughout. I was thus labelled as Indian-American, an odd subgroup that doesn’t have one culture to fall back to.
The moment I took that first bite, my mouth was coated with the thick stench of spices. It was awful, the sharp spices sliced my tongue and shot straight through my eyes. I couldn’t handle the cultural heat; I was just used to a simmer. I used to think that I could find solace in knowing that my culture’s food is my lasting connection, but I am even estranged from the very commodity that brought me here. I am the construction of spice trade, yet where I ended up, peeled off me all lasting connection I had besides my appearance to any culture. I do not bear the typical cultural markers that bind me to tradition. But, I do carry my family’s jet black hair and the gravity of migration taken to get me where I
There were all these spices: turmeric, star anise, masala, mingling in hot air with the slightest differentiation, but still melting together in one pungent curry. The bright, orange-red chicken with the thick, gloopy sauce, paired with a fluffy piece of roti to wipe the whole plate clean was my siren song. My palate was already satisfied by the aroma the food was steaming with, but I had to ask: “There isn’t too much spice in this, right?”
“Oh, you can handle the spice, I didn’t put much pepper in it today,” demeaningly everyone glared at me, waiting for the burst of peppers and resentment to drive me away.
It was completely condescending, alienating me from who I thought I was–I was the Americanized one. With that comment, resentfully, I took the wooden spoon and scooped all the curry onto …show more content…
Instead, I descended into a new wave of confused citizens who don’t know where on the line between cultures they fell. Not quite Indian, yet not quite American, there were crumbs of both were scattered throughout. I was thus labelled as Indian-American, an odd subgroup that doesn’t have one culture to fall back to.
The moment I took that first bite, my mouth was coated with the thick stench of spices. It was awful, the sharp spices sliced my tongue and shot straight through my eyes. I couldn’t handle the cultural heat; I was just used to a simmer. I used to think that I could find solace in knowing that my culture’s food is my lasting connection, but I am even estranged from the very commodity that brought me here. I am the construction of spice trade, yet where I ended up, peeled off me all lasting connection I had besides my appearance to any culture. I do not bear the typical cultural markers that bind me to tradition. But, I do carry my family’s jet black hair and the gravity of migration taken to get me where I