Natasha Kesh

Tripping on Home Cooking 

Posto and knachalonka,
vegetable chop with bhnarer cha,
malpua melting into vanilla ice cream,
narkalnadu soft as patience,
aloo paratha tearing open
to dhaniyar curry patar chutney,        
lebu and mixed-veg achar—
love, answering to many names.

It begins at the plate.
A quiet relationship.
Each bite more than survival,
each mouthful an emotion
called saliva without shame.
That is food to me.
Not just cooked—
but handled, tasted, corrected,
kissed with my own hunger.

Someone once said poetry is food.
Not written. Not recited.
Felt.

Why do we crave it so?
Is it instinct—
the ancient pull toward sweet and salt?
Or the brain whispering enough
when the right flavour lands?
Or culture, stubborn and proud,
my food better than yours,
mine took longer, cost more love?

Or maybe it’s simpler.
But can it really vanish so fast—
out of mouth, out of mind—
when hing is knocking at the liver,
curry leaves sliding through secret ducts,
last night’s malpua
playing sugar-notes
in the brain and bowel alike?

Food is music.
Food is love.
Food is the act of making.

It becomes me once inside—
working muscle, oiling bone,
laughing through intestines,
rolling across the liver floor,
unbothered by my contradictions.
It stays, even as I speak.

What you call donuts,
I call hot malpua
soaked in syrup,
elaichi, dalchini, laung breathing softly.
Your dumpukht biryani,
my chanarpulao—
steam rising, spice guarded,
waiting for that honest burp.
Your shahitukda,
my rasgulla—
spongy, obedient,
floating in a sea of sweetness.
Your bharta,
my shukto.

Food is opium.
Or poison.
Or the cure—
depending on how it’s held,
how it’s made,
how it’s loved.

So what do you choose?
Food you cook—
see, touch, trust—
emotion folded into heat?
Or food that arrives
already tired?

Agree. Disagree.
Food still asks for care
to sing like something soulful
and not a sad bird
trapped in your gut.

Cook once.
Listen.
Your food is your alter ego—
happy or aching.
Ask your stomach,
am I satiated
or merely sedated?

You’ll know.

Disclaimer:
These thoughts may be over-seasoned,
slow-cooked in imagination,
and should be consumed
with a pinch of salt.

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Sushi

Have you ever tried making sushi at home—
like, actually tried?

Glossy nori sheets posted up on a plate,
knife warming up in hot water like it’s about to do something serious.
Two-inch cuts. Clean. No hesitation.
The sheet splits—friend group broken up, vibe shifted.

Sorry, nori.
Did it sting knowing you’re now solo,
holding tiny rice grains together
while your family’s been sliced into flat, awkward pieces,
left staring at the ceiling?

Have you tried pressing rice onto nori?
The way it sticks—soft, trusting—
like someone pulling you in by the wrist,
not rough, just sure.
Rice settles. Nori holds.
Everyone relaxes.

And the avocado—
slick, dramatic, sliding into place
between rice, fish, vinegar air.
It doesn’t rush.
It belongs.
The whole roll smells like things working out for once.

Have you tried cutting maki rolls?
Did you pause, even for half a second,
before breaking into their tight little universe?
Knife straight through the middle—
surgical, artistic, slightly unhinged.

Oh sushi roll, you smell unreal.
Sweet like someone who loves quietly—
no noise, no flex,
just standing there, waiting on the other side,
calling you without calling you.

When I reach the edges where the rice thins,
I stop.
Just a beat.
You’re perfect. You’re enough. You fill me up.

Like dusk stitching day into night,
you close the gap between craving and comfort.
Worth the wait.

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