Illustration by Tai Tan
Our little six-year-old granddaughter calls it “Hindi food.” “I don’t want Hindi food,” she says, when I, her Nani, place a plate of matar paneer with boiled white rice in front of her. She loves paneer and naan at our house, but she likes to make a bit of fuss, to maybe seek attention.
Her strong opposition to Indian food, or Hindi food, makes me chuckle and smile. Her words carry an echo, a thread that stretches back to my mother’s kitchen, another country and another time. I, too, was like her when I was her age. I was a fussy eater, just like her. Mother always had to think of making different dishes, such as aloo parathas (potato-stuffed rotis) topped with loads of butter to make sure I eat something tasty, if not as healthy.
Now, our fusion household, a mix of Indian and French Canadian, is a place where cultures meet over a simmering pot of curry chicken, or everyone’s favourites, matar paneer (peas and cheese curry) and poutine. Sometimes, when our daughter, her husband and their children come over for a visit, it feels like a feast. The table becomes a blend of curries mixed with French-Canadian favourites, such as tourtières and sugar pie.
The kitchen is the home’s heartbeat, where the family converges and engages in a conversation over food, sprinkled with a dash of politics of the day. The sound of cumin crackling in hot oil, the sweetness of sautéed onions, the swirl of yellow turmeric in a pot of lentils – these are the familiar sounds of our evening hours and special holidays.
Thanksgiving is a tradition that my husband and I have held on to ever since our kids were young, and it continues to this day, with our French-Canadian son-in-law now having the honour of carving and serving the turkey. Our children grew up with the tradition of a delicate mix of tender turkey slices along with chicken, a few curries and chickpeas, and matar paneer.
In India, and during our dad’s diplomatic postings around the world, including in Kenya, Canada, Vietnam and Singapore, food was more than sustenance. It was the language of care, a display of cultures and cuisines. My mother’s kitchen was alive with sound: the clatter of steel pots, dough hitting the pan, her voice calling out to taste and stir.
She never followed recipes. She measured by instinct, tasting as she went, adjusting until the balance felt right. “Add a little more salt,” she would say, or “Let it rest – rice and dough, always leave it to a bit of rest.” Her cooking was intuitive, an act of memory and love rather than precision.
Years later, in our Canadian kitchen, I find myself doing the same, reaching for the same spices my mother once used, now lined up neatly beside olive oil, balsamic vinegar and soy sauce. Our pantry has an assortment of products from around the world, with basmati rice beside pasta shells, garam masala next to thyme and maple syrup. It’s a culinary conversation between continents, carried out in jars and labels, and somehow, it feels right. This, too, is Canada – layered, plural, and quietly inclusive.
Our dinners reflect that blend. Some nights, it’s butter chicken with roasted vegetables; other nights, pasta tossed with cumin and coriander. We don’t plan it that way, it just happens naturally. Over time, our table has become a kind of bridge, connecting nostalgic flavours with the tastes of the present.
Food, I’ve come to realize, is a language that needs no translation. It carries emotion and identity in every spoonful. When our granddaughter says Hindi food, she isn’t speaking about authenticity or geography. She is referring to connection, her own way of claiming a heritage that has quietly reshaped itself within her.
I love introducing her to different types of Hindi food: matar paneer along with potato-stuffed rotis, topped with enormous amount of butter. Her mother cooks Indian food at home, but when she’s preoccupied with commitments, she leaves it to us, Nana and Nani.
Our house remains a fusion household, not just because of what we eat, but because each meal is a dialogue between generations, between continents. When the aroma of matar paneer drifts through the kitchen and our granddaughter calls out, “Are we having Hindi food tonight?” I smile. She may not know it, but in that moment, she’s keeping a lineage alive, fragrant, evolving and full of love.
Jagjeet Sharma lives in Ottawa.