Memories on the Menu

An Afghani dish connects daughter and mother even after death.
By | May 16, 2019
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An Afghani dish connects daughter and mother even after death.
Illustrations by Haleigh Mun

On my mother’s side, I come from an Indian family of food connoisseurs and critics. Think “MasterChef” meets “Chopped” meets “Top Chef” meets “Bizarre Foods.” There are chefs and restaurant owners and gastronomists. At family gatherings, even before breakfast is over people love to discuss the menu for lunch and dinner. Meals are never simple; they are almost always a production. And my brother, uncles and cousin-brothers are more than willing to travel to the remotest areas to buy the best ingredients. All of our phone calls include mentions of ingredients, spices, herbs and recipes. 

Naturally, around 15 years ago, when my parents first visited me in New York City, I made a list of restaurants I wanted to take them to. A friend recommended Afghan Kebab House. She knew my family loved food adventures. This Afghani restaurant was in Jackson Heights, the neighborhood where I usually buy my Indian groceries. In New York City, it’s often in the nooks and crannies of unpretentious neighborhoods and grandmas’ kitchens where we hit the ethnic culinary jackpot. 

Afghan Kebab House looked a little dim from the outside, but it had great reviews, so we went inside. My mom didn’t typically have a big appetite, but that afternoon she devoured every single bite. For many years after that lunch, Mom would say, “I still remember the flavor of those succulent shrimp kebabs on the tip of my tongue.” Her comment was precious because my mom was a versatile cook, often critical of restaurant cooking. 

After my parents went home to India, even though I continued visiting Jackson Heights twice a month for my Indian groceries, my husband and I never returned to Afghan Kebab House. Maybe because we found other places in the city closer to work and home that offered Afghani food. Or maybe because eating in Jackson Heights didn’t work logistically. Carrying bags of groceries into a restaurant, and then lugging around a full belly (and hands) on the train, wasn’t very appealing. 

Forward to May 2014. I was at a writing residency in Martha’s Vineyard. It was part of our creative community’s tradition for every writer to pick a night to cook dinner for the rest of the group. One night, a fellow writer made Kabuli Pulao for dinner. It’s an Iranian-Afghani rice entrée made with mild spices, mince, cabbage and nuts. It was so light and flavorful, I knew my mother would love it. After I returned to New York City, I called her up and told her about Kabuli Pulao and how I was going to make it for her when I next visited India. 

A few days after that phone call, my parents were all packed and headed to vacation in Kashmir when my mom started to feel unwell. My father rushed her to the emergency room in New Delhi. My husband and I caught a flight, but my mother passed away while we were midair. 

An Afghani dish connects daughter and mother even after death.

Once the cremation and last rites were over, I turned to my dad. “What was the last thing Mom said to you?” The night before she was admitted to the hospital, my mother had organized a big dinner for the extended family; kebabs and curries were on the menu. Both mine and my brothers’ favorite dishes were served. The history and legacy of the dishes were discussed at the dining table. 

I nudged my aunts and uncles to share their last words with Mom. All of their last exchanges with her included a conversation about food. Every single person who came to pay their respects at the funeral and rituals said the same thing, “We will miss her cooking and how much she cared for her friends and family.” 

With Mom gone, I felt a sense of emptiness all summer. I missed her nagging. And the arguments about archaic traditions and recipes. The number of times we would end up cooking the exact same entrées for dinner parties in our respective homes without actually discussing—it was insane. Food conversations bridged the differences between the two generations. 

In early fall, around mid-September, some Hindu women celebrate the holiday of Teej, where they fast for their husband’s long life and pray for his well-being. In our home, my husband fasts for me too, tradition blended with a modern feminist twist. Before she died, Mom would always call two weeks ahead of time and tell me the date for Teej. She’d share the list of goodies I needed to organize for the puja (in Hinduism, the act of worship and showing reverence to God through invocations, prayers, songs and rituals). 

In September of the year I lost my mother, I was in my co-working space, browsing Facebook and eating Thai red curry for lunch. My timeline showed pictures of women celebrating Teej and looking oh-so-beautiful in their traditional saris and jewels. I dissolved into tears; I had never missed a Teej fast before that day. I had never felt more motherless. In my grieving, I forgot that the person who would remind me about Teej was no more. 

My husband and I left work early that evening and went for an unplanned walk in Manhattan. Random twists and turns brought us to an Afghani restaurant downtown. Their menu offered Kabuli Pulao. 

I sobbed. I ate Kabuli Pulao. I missed Mom. 

“When I see you in October, Mumma, I will make Kabuli Pulao for you.” Those were my last words to my mother. 

Was this dinner my mother’s way of reminding me that she was watching over us? I don’t know. But that night I started believing in magic again.