When the UK’s last lockdown lifted in 2021, and a return to normal life beckoned, I was distraught. For the past few years, I had at least been saved from the pressure of having plans and being with someone for Christmas and New Year’s Eve. Even though I had moved to London two years ago, the pandemic hadn’t made it easy to find friends in a new city. To escape my loneliness over the holidays, I decided to fly back to see my parents in Delhi. Unlike me, they had plans to ring in the new year – they were hosting a little dinner party for their friends.
In the isolation of the pandemic, far away from my family, I had forgotten how warm and inviting my parents’ home was. The kitchen was the heart of our family – cups of chai constantly marched out alongside trays of biscuits and conversation, yet another samosa being offered even though our plates and stomachs were full, a fridge that always had something nice to eat and a table that had a place for everyone.
During that dinner party, I saw my father going around topping up everyone’s drinks. My mother brought out the food, its aroma preceding it. Everyone was gathered around having fun. That’s when it struck me – how community can be forged by food.
Watching my parents laughing and eating with their friends, amid the optimism of a new year, I decided to cultivate that same levity with my own food and friends. Even though I didn’t have many strong friendships in London, nor any appreciable culinary skills, I hoped to nurture both over the year, just as my parents had throughout their lives.
So, 2022 became my year of feeding friends. The first friends I invited were my housemates – strangers from the internet I was locked in with during the pandemic. Those years were hard; while those who had the skills sought comfort in baking sourdough and banana bread, I struggled to prepare anything remotely edible. Even pasta didn’t come easily to me.
I believe in reading myself into knowing something. In lieu of cooking, I read about it. When I “discovered” that a reserved cup of pasta water can loosen pasta and coat the sauce, I was confident I could impress even the most hardened nonna. Except, when I got down to cooking, I used the entire cup of pasta water and wound up with a carby bite of the Mediterranean.
Disaster-free cooking comes mostly after disaster-ridden cooking. As my housemates became my friends, I crossed the perilous divide. Disasters with store-bought pasta were behind me: with the help of my far more proficient housemates, I was rolling out sweet potato gnocchi from scratch. Cooking became more than a means of sustenance. It became a way to share happiness and time.
My culinary curiosity was piqued; something new to learn was something new to eat. Despite being raised on the most wonderful dals an Indian household had to offer, I developed a taste for my housemate’s “white-boy dal” – which, unlike traditional Indian dals, is vegan and grounded in coconut milk.
In my year of feeding friends, I realised that learning and growth happen in ways that we don’t anticipate. As I gained the confidence to wrap a shortcrust pastry around my arm to roll it into a pie tin, I also overcame my shyness and invited friends to relish vegetables on beds of cream and pastry. Chopping coriander, its fresh fragrance lingering with every slice of the knife, became an exercise in staying in the present. Whenever anxiety rippled through me, I learned I only had to mix some flour, water and yeast, so I could knead my worries away instead.
I stopped looking for grand occasions to celebrate and began rejoicing in the seemingly insignificant. A friend dropping by on a summer day grew into an alfresco affair as we tore into naans and scooped up saag paneer on the terrace, while a non-stick pan bought in a Black Friday sale demanded christening with a celebratory dinner of buttery and crispy tahdig. No matter what I cooked, my mother was always a video-call away to accompany me through the recipe while my father would remind me to have something sweet to finish the meal.
Every time that year, when my friends were gathered around my table, passing plates of food and drink, I was reminded of my parents’ dinner party. I carry the warmth of that night now and, with each friend that shares in the delights (or disasters) of my kitchen, it spreads further and further.
