Be My Guest , livre ebook

Canongate Books - Basil Priya

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

47 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

'A brave and beautiful exploration into food, race, memory and the very meaning of life. I read it greedily - and so will you' Meera Sodha, author of Fresh IndiaThe dinner table, among friends, is where the best conversations take place - talk about the world, religion, politics, culture, love and cooking. In the same way, Be My Guest is a conversation about all these things, mediated through the sharing of food. We live in a world where some have too much and others not enough, where migrants and refugees are both welcomed and vilified, and where most of us spend less and less time cooking and eating together. Priya Basil explores the meaning and limits of hospitality today, and in doing so she invites us to consider that how much we have in common may depend on what we are willing to share.

Sujets

Histoire

Cultural studies

Informations

Publié par	Canongate Books
Date de parution	24 octobre 2019
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781786898500
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0440€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Also by Priya Basil
Strangers on the 16:02 The Obscure Logic of the Heart Ishq and Mushq

First published in Great Britain and Canada in 2019 by Canongate Books Ltd, 14 High Street, Edinburgh EH 1 1 TE
Distributed in Canada by Publishers Group Canada
canongate.co.uk
This digital edition first published in 2019 by Canongate Books
Copyright © Priya Basil, 2019
First published in the German language as Gastfreundschaft by Insel Verlag,2019
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Every effort has been made to trace copyright holders and obtain their permission for the use of copyright material. The publisher apologises for any errors or omissions and would be grateful if notified of any corrections that should be incorporated in future reprints or editions of this book.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 78689 849 4 e ISBN 978 1 78689 850 0
Contents
Be My Guest
Bibliography
TO BERLIN
W e begin as guests, every single one of us. Helpless little creatures whose every need must be attended to, who for a long time can give nothing or very little back, yet who – in the usual run of things – nevertheless insinuate ourselves deep into the lives of our carers and take up permanent residence in their hearts.
Our early dependence is indulged in the expectation that we, in turn, will become dependable. Maybe reaching adulthood really means learning to be more host than guest: to take care more than, or at least as much as, to be taken care of. Implicit in this outlook, it seems to me, is still an assumption that each person will, eventually, become a parent – the ultimate role, at least in cultures where the nuclear family is considered the foundation of society. A role I decided to forego. A choice that left me questioning what my part can be in the life-play of hospitality.
Whether you have your own kids or not, it’s hard to avoid the general shift from guest to host, which is the hallmark of maturity. This switch is perhaps most challenging in relation to our parents, from whom we can’t help forever expecting certain protections and ministrations.
Nobody in the world welcomes us quite like our parents do. The reception, if we’re lucky, is a simultaneous cosseting and taking for granted. An experience that’s, at best, comforting and exasperating in equal measure, unique in its loaded history of give and take, its private parameters of permission and expectation. Mothers, of course, host us as no one else can – in their bodies. A nine-month gestation. Guest-ation?

‘THAT’S NOT ENOUGH!’ I stare into the brimming pot of kadhi, a creamy curry made with gram flour and yoghurt.
My mother ignores me, goes on stirring the turmeric-tinged sauce.
‘I could eat that all on my own – for breakfast!’ I’m aghast at the prospect of running short of one of my favourite dishes in the world. Give me a ladleful of this atop a mound of freshly boiled rice and I will take it whatever the hour, over whatever else is on offer. There have been times when I’ve eaten kadhi at every meal for days on end. Why on earth has my mother made so little?
‘Eyes bigger than stomach,’ she sighs.
Her words are the oldest censure of my eating life, the most frequent, and the most unheeded. They have little to do with the size of my body, which is slender, and everything to do with the size of my desire, which is vast, unwieldy, panoptic. Mum plunges the wooden spoon deep into the pot for a last stir. The paddle emerges coated with translucent slivers of onion, specks of tomato, a scattering of coriander leaves. My mouth waters, all reason drowns. I start scheming strategies to control how much might be eaten by our imminent guests. We have to use the small bowls to serve. And Mum shouldn’t insist on extra helpings. And whatever happens, she can’t offer anybody a portion to take home.
‘Stop being so silly,’ Mum says. ‘There’s plenty here. And anyhow, I can always make more for you.’
But it doesn’t matter how much she cooks. She can never make enough. Not for me.
Mine is perhaps an odd strain of a common affliction, a variant of the consumption epidemic ravaging our capitalist societies: those of us who have the most still want more, much more, than we need. Could it be otherwise in a system premised on the false conviction that our existence as we know it depends on the continuity of one thing alone: economic growth? Our appetites must keep increasing to propel the economy. Eyes bigger than stomach – the refrain that sums me up also epitomises our contemporary condition. But are there situations where greed, if not excusable, is understandable, and maybe even necessary?
Kadhi is what awaits me every time I go see my mother. Mostly in London, but wherever she happens to be – Australia or Kenya, the countries where my siblings live – whenever I come, kadhi is cooked. It is what I take away from each visit as well; my mother prepares and freezes batches of the tarka, the spicy tomato base at the heart of much North Indian cuisine, the most time-consuming aspect of the dish. Roasting spices, browning onions, reducing tomatoes – this alone can take up to an hour, before the main ingredients of the dish are added and the whole mixture cooked further. In the case of kadhi, the tarka is a mix of whole fenugreek and mustard seeds, ground cumin and coriander, curry leaves, onion, garlic, turmeric, green chilli and tinned tomato. All I have to do at home in Berlin is heat up Mum’s tarka, add yoghurt and flour, sprinkle fresh coriander to finish, and I have the taste of another home, the feeling of time turning in slow, savoury spirals. Each bite holds the flavour of the past and the present, a lifetime of my mother’s love, her unstinting hospitality.
Things my mother has long done for me almost effortlessly become, with age and illness, more burdensome for her. This has not curbed her generosity, but every gesture costs her more. I suspect I began to notice the change long after it had started to happen. One day I went home and there was no kadhi. Mum was all apology. She had bought the ingredients, but had simply not felt up to cooking. ‘But I’ll do it now!’ she said quickly. No doubt my face had betrayed my disappointment, which was not just about the setback to my stomach – substantial though that was – but the letdown of love. I knew that my mother would do anything for me, and the fact that she had not managed this relatively small task pained me. If even her boundless adoration, always ready to express itself, had not succeeded in pushing her over the threshold of limitation, she must be really unwell or really old. I felt her mortality, a frightening chill. She had never seemed so fragile, not even lying in a hospital bed, not even when she was totally grey from depression. I felt tremendously sorry for her – but also for myself. And I became angry, because my sense of what was most dependable in the world had been shaken. ‘It won’t take long.’ Mum set a pan on the hob, started rifling for ingredients. I protested, both earnestly and falsely, that it wasn’t necessary, I could wait, kadhi didn’t matter. ‘If you help me with the chopping we’ll be done before you know it.’ The sound of her voice was accompanied by the static of mustard seeds popping in hot oil, releasing a smell that pierced my nose as sharply as the tears welling in my eyes. ‘It’s the onions,’ I insisted to Mum when she noticed. It was not the onions. It was life, tipping the scales of give and take.

T HE WAY WE COOK for and eat with others is one of the more tangible, quotidian ways of measuring generosity. The type and amount of food offered, how it’s served and to whom – these things define hospitality at the table, and beyond. Around the world, more people may be spending less time cooking – in the UK, US and Germany right now it’s between five and six hours a week – and eating. In my family the ratio of food–time to life–time remains high, though, of course, we consider such a distinction spurious, because for us food is one of the most intense ways of living. We visit supermarkets as others do art galleries. We cook as others run marathons. We offer, at one spread, flavours of a number and variety that others might only encounter in a packet of pick ’n’ mix.
Our family line of food fanatics may well stretch back over generations: the greed-gene honed over eons, mutated to fixate on the gratifications of grub at the expense of everything else. However, for me, it all begins with my maternal grandmother, an ardent eater, force-feeder and devout believer in the stomach as the only way to the heart: Mumji almost everybody calls her, the motherly moniker perhaps partly an acknowledgement of her role as arch-feeder. Her cooking swells sympathies and bellies, raises tempers and temperatures, sends some running and brings others back begging for more. She wields ingredients like weapons and has made food the front line in a fight for first place in the affections of the family. At her hob or her table, hospitality often holds hands with its brother word hostility . Both are birthed from ghos-ti , their ancient Indo-European root, which meant host, guest and stranger – the trio of roles through which we shift all our lives. So apt that this inescapable flux was once contained in a single word.

F OOD HAS LONG BEEN wielded as a form of power, a potent means of commending or condemning, of flaunting extravagance and displaying largesse. Ancient Roman history is replete with tales of excess, feasts as the stage for vanity and vengeance, like the notorious Emperor Elagabalus whose legendary spreads were spiked with sadistic surprises: at the end of a lavish meal that might include nightingale tongues, parrot heads and peacock brains you could be escorted to a guestroom for the night, only to find a tiger inside ready to devour you.
Every century and every