I Ran From Rasam, Then Came Back for Seconds

I spent years chasing fancy food and rebellion — then remembered my mother already knew the recipe

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Growing up, rasam rice was the answer to everything, according to my mom. Too full? Rasam rice. Too sick? Rasam rice. Emotionally unstable, bruised from school drama or sibling battles? Rasam rice, always, served hot and steaming, like therapy in edible form.

Our home was a temple to South Indian staples, and my mother ruled the kitchen with a silent, iron ladle. Bread wasn’t real food to her, and pizza was a homemade treat where the base suspiciously resembled dosa. If food had structure, it had purpose. If it came in a packet, it had no soul. That was the vibe.

But of course, I rebelled. What’s the point of being a teenager if not to wrinkle your nose at the food that raised you? My sister and I hit peak drama one day, dismissing yet another home-cooked meal. My mom, in her cool rage, threw down the gauntlet. “Eat out for a week. I’m not cooking. You’ll see.” We squealed in delight. No dinner duty? Party time!

This was pre-Zomato, pre-Swiggy, pre-anything-useful. We had a few restaurants with landlines and a five-item menu, and we were ready to live the dream.