My love-hate relationship with Food: From Buffets to Bloating

A few days back, I went for dinner with an enthusiastic group of Generation Z students. It was, anyway, a late dinner by my usual routine. The order comprised chocolate shakes, sizzlers, butter naans, dal makhanis, malai koftas, brownies, and jalebis. I was devastated, not because I was paying the bill, but because I was the only one at the table softly requesting the manager if they served tawa chapati. I questioned my existence and asked myself - when was the last time I could digest an Oreo shake, noodles, and butter naan simultaneously? I don’t think even my taste buds retain any such memory. 

My relationship with food, like all my other relationships, has endured. We have come a long way. I thought of reflecting on this relationship, hoping that some of you might relate to my experience. One of the primary purposes of writing, or for that matter any form of art, is to express not just for yourself, but for those around you, too.

My Childhood and Food Dreams

My strongest memory of a ridiculously strong appetite is from when I was 10 years old. In those days, my best friend and I had a dream. Our favorite discussion was to imagine ourselves as rebellious, strong, single, old women. We would picture ourselves as grey-haired women dressed in pyjamas in a room with a huge projector for movies, and an unlimited supply of food. Can you imagine the food we dreamt of? Our dream platter was Kurkure and Cola. Kurkure was a rage in our school days - the spices suited our palate, and the quantity was great compared to a bag full of air with some chips. A pizza from a nearby store is also a core memory. It was priced at INR 35. We used to collect coins and reach the nearby store. Nothing brought more satisfaction than pizza and chips with friends. Never in our wildest imagination did we think that one day we might not have the desire and the appetite to survive only on colas and chips.

Teenage Parties and Punjabi Household

As I grew up, all our parties and family gatherings were centered on food. On Saturdays, our family had neighbors come over for dinner. There were starters, drinks, chakna, a lot of main courses, and forced desserts, even if no one was hungry, because celebrations equal food. In Punjabi households, if one hasn’t overeaten at a party, either the host isn’t warm enough or the bonding is cold. I distinctly remember a phrase I heard often during my teenage years - “Let’s enjoy today!” The literal translation was to organize a buffet and fill food pipes to the brim.

Hostel Food and Homemade Tinda

With a loaded tummy, as I moved on to a hostel for further studies, I remember things that changed my relationship with food forever. The hostel food was bearable at the beginning, but eventually going to the mess felt like punishment.  That’s when mom’s food - ma ke haath ka khana became a matter of longing and regret. Even the homemade tindas, toris, and karelas, all the food I had once despised, seemed exotic and out of reach. The hostel was my first sneak peek into adult life - where you eat what you get, do all your work, cry yourself to sleep, and pop paracetamol at the first sniffle, because who will take care of your weak, feverish body?

Marriage and Chapati Rebellion

Ma ke haath ka khana holds a special place for me. She is an amazing cook; she brings magic to the food. My daughter feels the same, though she insists that her grandmother is not a great teacher because I am nowhere close to her culinary skills. When I got married, my relationship with food shifted from nostalgia to anxiety, angst, and rebellion. Food was a constant topic of discussion in the first few weeks. A round chapati of desirable thickness was considered a feat among extended family members. One evening, irritated with my uneven chapatis, I kneaded 2 kilograms of flour and rolled chapati after chapati. I finally mastered the skill. But once I conquered, I outsourced the work. The pressure burst, and there was liberation. I am not a great cook; I am good when I choose to cook. This helped me understand why food made by underpaid, overworked, and exhausted mess workers never tasted like ma ka khana, while the langar at the Golden Temple made by people with faith and intention always did.

Our Evolving Relationship: Transactional and Suspicious

These days, food feels like a high-profile client. It doesn’t listen to me; it behaves the way it wants. An extra bite of chapati can disrupt my stomach’s pH level, and mixing hot and cold foods makes my food pipe shriek. I hate buffets, especially breakfast buffets on holidays, which, in my opinion, are one of the biggest scams of the hospitality industry. My relationship with food is now formal: no love, only transactional motives. And with a truckload of information from social media, apps, news reports, YouTube videos, and podcasts, I’ve also become suspicious. Is white bread okay, or should I eat only brown? Is the brown the actual husk or color? If samosas are bad because of refined flour, is yogurt with sugar okay? What’s worse - cola or diet cola? Should I sacrifice my liver first or my kidneys?

In all this clutter, the only thing that feels safe is eating leaves straight from my kitchen garden pots. That, at least, has not yet been disallowed by any influencer. Why bring farm to fork, when you can take your mouth to the farm? It burns calories too, and saves money on cooks, dishes, and the endless cleaning.

The Never-Ending Loop

I still love the aromas and visuals of food, but my digestive system has turned hostile to my happiness. It wants me to eat clean. When I work out, with the pain I feel, I promise myself that I will eat clean. When it’s time to eat clean, I promise myself I’ll burn all the calories in the next workout. This has put me in a never-ending loop. I hate people with good metabolism. They must have fed hungry souls in their past lives. Given my appetite, I feel I must have stolen food from others in mine.

I wrote this blog to share your pain if you’re in the same boat. If you’re younger than me, I urge you to enjoy food while your metabolism lasts. If you cannot relate, I hate you, and I want to tell you that there’s more to life than food, like mountains, rivers, and valleys. I will wait for you in those mountains once you are done eating.

Bon appétit!