From the Editor: Extraordinary love in an ordinary meal

Pots and pans were my favourite toys as a toddler.

Wooden spoons, colanders, and pots bigger than me would get dragged from room to room. I would mix “ingredients” and roll Play-Doh to make roti or pancakes.

It’s a story my mom recalls with a laugh — and some grievance — as she would return home from work only to have to wash every dish I had pulled from the cabinets that day.

I had a toy kitchen set, but it was never as fun as playing with the real deal. My ਦਾਦੀ, or grandma, would spend her days serenaded by my drumming with wooden spoons. It’s no wonder she struggles with her hearing now.

My first memory of “real” cooking is of making chocolate cupcakes in elementary school. I decorated them with icing and colourful sprinkles for my classmates, feeling proud of what I had accomplished all on my own.

Baking and cooking have always been part of my life. My family gathers around food — whether it’s cake on birthdays, trying new cookie recipes, or even roti and dahl, a lentil stew, for dinner. For many families, dinner is the first chance to see and speak to each other.

Baking became such a passion that I studied it at Vancouver Community College while I was in high school. I learned so much — including the importance of de-gassing bread doughs — and became a better baker, but it wasn’t meant to be.

I learned precision, technique, and the science behind the perfect cake, but also an exhausting pursuit of perfection. Something I loved became a chore, and somewhere along the way, I lost sight of the joy of preparing food for others and instead focused on producing something worthy of admiration.

Still, I came to love baking and cooking again, especially for my loved ones.

In my family, love rarely announces itself. It shows up in the kitchen — the extra serving of food an aunt insists you take, boxes of sweets to celebrate special moments, and newly-packed containers returned to the people who filled them. Sometimes, it’s the quiet act of making sure everyone else has eaten before you sit down yourself.

Our “I love yous” are told through a plate of apples sprinkled with black pepper or a glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice that took 10 minutes and seven oranges to make.

This is not to say that cooking should always be an act of self-sacrifice. Too often, women are expected to bear the brunt of the labour. Care should be shared, too. Everyone deserves to be fed and given the opportunity to rest.

Khali huth nhi pajee da is a common phrase meaning “don’t send them empty-handed” in Panjabi, and food is deeply rooted in both Sikhi and Panjabi culture. Langar, a free community kitchen, is available at every gurdwara across the world. It’s a staple of Sikh identity, and the act of preparing food is part of seva or selfless service.

Some foods are also reserved for a season or celebration — like Thanksgiving and roasted brussel sprouts, because what other reason do you have to eat that?

In Panjab, saag and makki di roti are winter staples. The slow-cooked mustard greens and thin bread made from corn flour are a labour of love best enjoyed in the cold.

Preparing food can often seem so ordinary that we can overlook how extraordinary it truly is. There is love in the time it takes to wash, chop, season, and cook. There is love in remembering someone doesn’t like tomatoes but loves ketchup. There is love in preparing something warm for a person who has had a bad day.

Food is one of the most tangible ways we make care visible. While cooking revolves around the basic need to eat, it blends the two things we need to survive — nourishment and love.