It was difficult to bridge the generational divide
Between grandma and me, there was a chasm wide
Raised in two different eras and two different continents
Communication was stilted despite our best intents
Language and cultural barriers were quite vast
We wished to create memories that would last
But I could not imagine her world, mine she could not comprehend
We shared little despite the time together we tried to spend
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She had uprooted herself at her age to come live with us
She had tried to adapt to our style of living without a fuss
Gradually she had made the kitchen her domain
Serving us gourmet food instead of meals plain
Although I admired the delectable food she prepared
To attempt something as complicated I would not have dared
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Fate had to conspire to make our worlds collide
Where else, but in the kitchen, we bridged our divide
One day she asked me for assistance in opening a can
The aroma in the kitchen made me wonder what was in the pan
It was a grain I had never heard of or seen previously
I found its description online when she told me its name in Hindi
Apparently it was a ceremonial food meant to be consumed
During ritual fasting- my grandmother resumed
Cooking the dish with a beatific smile
And I just stood there watching her for a while
Until she asked me to get involved too
And despite being sure this was something I could not do
I started following her instructions to prepare
The first of many dishes that we would come to share..
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From that day onwards, every opportunity I took
In learning from her how to cook
Traditional Indian fare, in doing so we bridged our divide
I learnt about my culture through food, I learnt to take pride
In the rich culinary tradition of my ancestral land
The language of food prepared with love, I began to understand
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Food is an expression of love, they say
It became evident to me that day..
Passion...unbridled 