It’s been said that, out of all the senses, smell evokes the most powerful memories. My most potent memories are triggered by the smell of onions lightly sweating in a pan. A pinch of salt, a dash of ground coriander, chili, and turmeric. What follows is the vision of bright yellow droplets of oil gathering on white china and ratty linen placemats covered in autumn leaves, the sound of a whirring fan and the tail end of a Malayalam folk song, the touch of the smooth dining room table and cold silverware. What comes last, and is most anticipated, is the taste. The elastic bite of chicken appam, the sour tang of chemmeen kari, the spicy succulence of karimeen pollichathu.
When I was little, I used to watch my Ammachi cook in her suburban-Ottawa bungalow, where the family gathered to enjoy these traditional Malayali dishes. I often found myself hoping I could replicate them once I got older. But, the more I think about the future, the more I worry about how difficult it will be to sustainably access the ingredients I would need to assemble these meals.
