My strongest childhood memories are not from my own childhood. They belong to my father. I think of them often—children picking mangoes straight off the tree, chickens running free around the house, men measuring their wealth by the cows they own, and a village taking care of its many, many children—but I think of them most when I braise chicken in curry.
The chicken curry itself is a recipe passed down by my father. Each time he’d prepare it, and we’d sit down to eat as a family, the stories would flow. It became how we understood where he came from: not just through his stories, but in the ritual of eating in the same traditions.
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