Essay: Learning to speak the language of food by Sambrita Saha

Sambrita Saha shares a heartfelt essay on the way she saw food and cooking as a child, and it changed as she grew up, interconnecting it with a gender lens and skewed social norms.

Before I knew how to form full sentences, I knew the sound of mustard seeds crackling in hot oil. I knew the smell of burnt garlic, the sting of chopped green chilies on my fingertips, the comforting weight of rice and ghee on my tongue. These were my first languages—learned not in a classroom, but in the heat of the kitchen, watching the women in my family communicate in spoons, steam, and silence.

In my home, food was never just sustenance. It was the way we expressed what we could not say. When my mother was angry, the food tasted sharp—too much chili, a forgotten pinch of salt. When she was tired, we had leftovers. But when she wanted to say she loved us, she made “shorshe ilish,” soaking mustard with the kind of patience that only love allows.