All posts by Amanda Herbert

“It Tastes/Smells like Home!”: Memory, Food Nostalgia & the Immigrant Experience

By Annima Bahukhandi
British-Iranian food writer, Yasmin Khan, opens her recipe book, “The Saffron Tales: Recipes from the Persian Kitchen” (2016), with a frank admission of her lifelong obsession with pomegranates. She fondly recalls the multi-sensory pleasure of eating pomegranates—from the visceral feel of the fruit’s leathery skin, to the crunch of the pomegranate pearls, to the deep red color that stains hands, tongue, fingers, and even clothes. For her, pomegranates transport her back to the warmth of Iranian culture and cooking, a stark contrast to the negative portrayal of Iran in the British culture she grew up in.

Ripe pomegranate. Image Credits: Pexels
Ripe pomegranate. Image Credits: Pexels

Cooking and consuming food is not only a subjective sensory experience but also a cultural and political assertion of diverse ways of living. In this piece, I explore food ingredients as powerful signifiers of gastro-nostalgia and as sites for the construction and reconstruction of immigrant, intergenerational cultural identities. The 21st century is witnessing more people moving away from their natal homes and regions than ever before. For many refugees and exiles, their migration is a question of survival, while others move away for better lifestyles or work aspirations. Despite untethering from their geographic homelands, individuals keep the psychological representation of home alive through cultural practices like food habits, language, and everyday lifestyle. Food, in particular, plays a crucial role in evoking cultural identity due to its multi-sensory impact, imbued with intrapsychic and interpersonal meanings. 

David E. Sutton, in his seminal work “Remembrance of Repasts” (2001), argues that food and memory are perfectly intertwined when exploring identity, as both encode powerful hidden meanings. Food evokes strong gustatory and olfactory memories, nourishing us both visceral and intra-psychically. For members of diaspora communities, even a single food item can evoke a deep connection to one’s homeland. For example, many Koreans go to great lengths to carry their mother’s homemade kimchi, regardless of its pungent smell. 

For many Indians traveling abroad, carrying homemade pickles and ghee (clarified butter) helps them stay rooted in their home culture. For Tibetan refugees exiled from their homeland for decades, eating tsampa (roasted barley flour) with salted butter tea maintains their connection with their homeland.

Tibetan butter tea served with tsampa cakes. Image Credits: Wikimedia Commons
Tibetan butter tea served with tsampa cakes. Image Credits: Wikimedia Commons

Social media is a powerful site where diaspora identity and cultural reproduction are consolidated through the popularization of food networks, food bloggers, and channels celebrating indigenous, local, and lesser-known cuisines. Indian food representation is a prime example, as Indians form one of the largest and most diverse diasporas globally. For decades, the global representation of Indian cuisine has been limited to a narrow Northern Indian scope, with dishes like butter chicken, naan, and dals synonymous with Indian food. Yet, for most Indians in the southern, eastern, and western parts of the country, these dishes are far from their everyday home meals.

Fresh kokum flower. Image credits: Wikimedia Commons
Fresh kokum flower. Image credits: Wikimedia Commons
Kokum drink which is sweet and tangy and usually served cold. Image credits: Wikimedia Commons
Kokum drink which is sweet and tangy and usually served cold. Image credits: Wikimedia Commons

It is heartening to see a widening space where regional cuisines thrive online, emboldened by diaspora desiring the visual and gustatory appeal of their ancestral foods. Much like regional cookbooks, social media sites like Instagram, Facebook and Youtube have become powerful visual cookbooks preserving and spreading cultural cuisines while also creating communities of succor through gastro-nostalgia. 

For the Indian diaspora which has diverse food histories linked to their specific regional identities, social media has allowed for many under-represented dishes and ingredients to find a larger audience. Many home cooks and chefs in India and abroad now emphasize their regional identity and bring hyper-local ingredients to the fore—kokum (garcinia flower) in Konkani cuisine, sattu (roasted gram flour) in Bihari cuisine, bamboo shoots in Naga cuisine, and kulith (horsegram lentil) in Garhwali cuisine.  While many of these ingredients are often shared across multiple cuisines, yet it is their unique usage or over-presence in one’s own cuisine that strongly connects these ingredients to one’s geographic and psychological sense of rootedness.  

Kulith lentils. Image credits: Wikimedia Commons
Kulith lentils. Image credits: Wikimedia Commons

Sutton recounts the nostalgia for “patridha” (greek for homeland) that the fragrance of a basil plant evokes in many Greek immigrants living away from their homeland. He argues that objects can become more powerfully loaded with identity when experienced in new or different contexts, crossing boundaries of nation-states and cultures. In a similar view, in this piece I talk about ghee making as a gastro-nostalgic exercise for me, recalling subjective memories of my grandmother’s cooking as well as evoking larger cultural imagery of my under-represented Garhwali identity.  

Homemade Ghee. Image credits: Wikimedia Commons
Homemade Ghee. Image credits: Wikimedia Commons

For many of us, uprooted or not yet fully rooted, familiar food ingredients operate like transitional objects, soothing our anxieties and giving us a sense of safety as we navigate unfamiliar experiences. Basking in the fragrance, touch, and taste of familiar ingredients often creates a sense of wholeness in an increasingly alienating world. Sometimes, the waft of basil, the taste of ghee, the crunch of pomegranates, and the spiciness of kimchi added to any dish are enough to maintain and creatively reconstitute one’s memories of one’s homeland and remind us that we are safe indeed. 

REFERENCES
Khan, Yasmin. The Saffron Tales: Recipes from the Persian Kitchen. Bloomsbury USA, 2016.

Sutton, David E. Remembrance of Repasts: An Anthropology of Food and Memory. Berg Publishers, 2001.

Annima Bahukhandi is a psychologist and interdisciplinary researcher with a profound interest in psycho-social research. She holds a Master’s degree in Psychology and an MPhil in Sociology. She has taught psychology at the University of Delhi and B. R. Ambedkar University, India. Her primary areas of interest include memory, migration, and psychoanalytic theory. She has published work on the silenced exile in Burma and the Tibetan refugee community in India. Currently, she practices as a psychologist, and in her free time, she enjoys exploring the cultural and historical roots of both popular and lesser-known cuisines. Writing about food and culture allows her to blend her passion for diverse cuisines with her academic pursuits, providing a rich, conceptual anchor for her gustatory explorations.

A Connecticut Yankee in Texas

By Meli Alexander
Growing up in a small state like Connecticut in the 1970s was a great time to be an aspiring chef. Sandwiched between bigger states and bigger cities shaped Hartford Connecticut’s cuisine: NYC-style Chinese takeout, with its ubiquitous packets of duck sauce and hot mustard; Italian-American delights such as baked ziti or sausage and peppers; and Boston deep-fried cod and clams. These foods woke up my taste buds and my curiosity about the world.

Despite the terrible school lunch options offered at my elementary school, I always looked forward to Pizza Fridays. In Connecticut, this meant a Sicilian-style American pizza, thick and hearty, in a perfect rectangular shape. But I couldn’t help but wonder what other pizza styles were out there…just waiting to be discovered.

I knew I had a hidden talent about coming up with my own recipes, especially focusing on food combinations. By age five I was creating fun ice cream flavors such as maraschino cherries and vanilla ice cream. I also studied the very first cookbook I ever saw, which was a community cookbook from my grandmother’s beloved home in New Brunswick, Canada. It was a peek into another culture and I had no idea of the scope of recipes that were waiting for me around the corner.

In 1979, my mother made a huge decision that changed the way I see the world through food. Our sudden  move to Pasadena, Texas was more traumatic than I have ever let on, despite the thrill of flying first class. Being uprooted from everything I knew — my home, my school, my church — was surreal. Trying to understand the heavy Texas accents alone was beyond challenging.

I did my best to fit into my new world. We lived in a huge apartment complex and had year-round access to a swimming pool. My brother and I became latchkey kids. This gave us a lot of freedom mixed with responsibilities, and I did a lot of grocery shopping and cooking.

Thanks to a few of my new neighbors, I also learned about Tex-Mex and Southern cooking. One of my neighbors was a stay-at-home mother, and I absolutely adored her. She was warm and gracious, the classic example of Southern hospitality and charm, and one of the first things she did was to teach me how to make pecan pralines with their signature gooeyness and creaminess. The recipe was found in a community cookbook, which  became a portal into a new culinary world. I was surprised to see many versions of the same recipe but later realized that this was a common feature of community cookbooks.

My neighbor lent me that cookbook for inspiration, and I learned even more about ingredients and dishes that I had never heard of: okra, jalapeño chiles, tamales. My perception of food expanded and honestly, become an addiction! It even influenced my bold choice of constantly trading in my homemade peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for a hot meal at my junior high school.

With very little allowance money (despite all of the chores I had to do), I always tried to come up with the 85 cents required for a meal at school. I tried delicious meals featuring fried okra, burritos, and tacos. However, Fridays were never quite the same without Sicilian-style pizza. My pizza cravings were about to change…

One Saturday, my brother and I were taken out to lunch by that wonderful lady who taught me how to make pecan pralines. I wish I could remember the name of the restaurant, but Tex-Mex pizza was featured on the menu. I never had anything like it; I was so used to my favorite toppings of pepperoni and mushrooms. Seeing “new” toppings such as chorizo, jalapeño chiles, and cilantro blew my ten-year-old mind. I was in culinary heaven.

Homemade Tex-Mex Pizza. Image courtesy of the author.
Homemade Tex-Mex Pizza. Image courtesy of the author.

That single meal expanded my desire to experiment with ingredients. Before I knew it, I was exchanging recipe ideas with some of the mothers in my apartment complex. One idea I remember sharing was taco salad, using Doritos instead of regular tortilla chips for added flavor and depth.

By my eleventh birthday, I accepted the fact that I was in charge of grocery shopping and cooking for my family. That Christmas, I opened up one of my presents and it was a Crockpot (or so I thought). However, when I opened the box, it was a wonderful and soft teddy bear. This was a reminder I was still a kid, despite some grown-up responsibilities. 

Soon after that Christmas, my mother ended her relationship with her partner, and we moved back to Connecticut. I never had the chance to return the community cookbook I borrowed, but it had permanently changed my culinary repertoire. Despite how challenging life was in Pasadena, I am forever grateful to our apartment complex neighbors for helping me to learn about an entirely new cuisine. Tex-Mex will always be one of my favorites.

Now, I always encourage people to try new ingredients and dishes. One of the cool things about a particular kind of cuisine is to embrace the regional differences. Recipes are really just guidelines. Most community cookbooks will have slight variations of the same dish. It is up to you to find your favorite version of a classic recipe and share it with your loved ones.

Meli Alexander has been passionate and — honestly, obsessed — about genealogy after going to a family reunion in New Brunswick, Canada when she was a pre-teen. Her love and respect for international cuisines started much earlier; living in New York City fueled that fire. In 2004, Meli made the life-changing decision to go to culinary school. She graduated from the one-year culinary program at the Art Institute of Seattle with honors. Her experience includes working at an Italian restaurant, Whole Foods Market, and a truffle café at the famed Pike Place Market. During the COVID pandemic, Meli put her acting career aside and focused purely on genealogy, joining a vast community of fellow genealogists on social media. Struggling to find her place in that amazing and collaborative world, Meli was inspired by genealogists such as Gena Philibert-Ortega and Michael W. Twitty, authors who combine genealogy with food. Defining herself as a Culinary Genealogist, “a person who combines the disciplines of food and genealogy,” Meli reinvented herself as The DNA Chef in 2022.

Early Modern Research with Britain’s Favourite Organic Producer

By Grace Palmer

In the spring of 2023, I undertook a deep dive into early modern British (and some European) recipes for a project with Hexhamshire Organics, an organic farm near Newcastle in the North East of England, focused on creating short sentences on the historic uses of herbs, fruit and vegetables, designed to pique their customers’ interests by examining how their favourite produce was consumed in the past. Within this project, I focused on using domestically-produced receipt books – which were often collaborative family books carefully curated by multiple generations to create unique recipe collections – and horticultural texts, produced as instruction manuals for gardeners, providing information on the multitude of plants that were cultivated by early modern Britons. Admittedly these sources were produced by and for the upper- and middle-classes, however they are a fascinating route to understanding how food was enjoyed in the past, and do provide some insights into the culinary habits of ordinary Britons.

Pages exploring ‘mountayne Radish’ and ‘Carrottes’ in Rembert Dodoens (trans. Henry Lyte Esquyer), A Niewe Herball, or Historie of Plantes, (published in England- 1578), pp 600-601


Perhaps especially because our audience for this project was consumers interested in organic, locally-sourced produce, I was struck by the similarities some recipes held to many present-day dishes loved by modern Britons. For example, many recipes including carrots described the vegetable being enjoyed grated and baked with a variety of spices, reminiscent of a modern carrot cake. Similarly, by the 18th century, recipes instructing how tomatoes (a ‘New World’ discovery for many early modern Europeans) could be made into ketchup were more commonplace. It was fascinating to see how some of my favourite and regularly consumed dishes had such long-reaching origins. While early modern recipe books often contained the spectacular, documenting exceptional meals that were not eaten on an everyday basis, I was struck by the variety of herbs, fruits and vegetables that were clearly dietary staples. Explorations into the New World expanded the origins of commonly eaten produce: potatoes, the Jerusalem artichoke (named the “potato of Canada”), and peppers (initially viewed with some suspicion, but were quickly cultivated by poor farmers as a cheap alternative of expensive, imported black pepper) were often included in recipe collections, alongside spices from across South and Eastern Asia. Contemporary cooks displayed a clear interest in the presentation and taste of their dishes. A variety of herbs and spices were used – including dill, savory, chillies and sorrel – to add depth of flavour. Recipes describe the various innovative ways produce was used as a garnish, instructing the reader to pickle red cabbage to enhance its purple-red hue, or to finely chop brussels sprouts, to make dishes more visually appealing. I found that my research challenged pre-existing conceptions I myself had about potentially “backwards” culinary habits from the early modern era as the recipes instead showcased the diverse and rich culinary traditions from the period.

Early modern people assigned a fascinating array of medical uses to almost all plants. While some seem to make logical sense to the modern reader, many seem incredulous. (Giant) mustard leaves were often placed like a plaster on a patient’s head to help prevent vertigo. Spring onions were made into an ointment to cure dandruff, and lettuce was eaten after supper to prevent drunkenness, imagined to stop alcohol vapours (widely believed to cause drunkenness) reaching the brain. One early modern writer even used globe artichokes as a deodorant, believing the vegetable helped reduce the smell of his armpits. The huge variety of medical uses assigned to various herbs, fruits and vegetables is a testament to the ingenuous inventions of contemporaries, showcasing how they innovatively used all aspects of different produce to understand the world around them. Many medicinal recipes for common ailments and diseases were passed between generations, adapted and improved through experimentation over time. Much of the way early modern people understood their diet was influenced by humoral theory, often dictating the imagined medicinal cures behind plants and even the combination of ingredients set out in recipes. For example, sorrel was often paired with meats or eggs for its perceived cooling properties, imagined to aid digestion. Similarly, “hot and dry” horseradish was commonly eaten with fish, believed to counteract the negative associations of the “cold and wet” nature of fish. The humoral properties of produce meant some recipes came with warnings for future readers: cooks were advised against serving raw onions, imagined to induce headaches and dull the senses, and readers were warned about the overconsumption of spinach, believed to cause nausea. While sometimes comedic to the modern reader, early modern cooks used commonly consumed produce in innovative ways to understand the world around them, a testament to their ingenuity and invention.

Overall, this was a fascinating project, which taught me a huge amount about early modern recipes, diets, and consumption habits more broadly. While this project focused on highlighting the spectacular and sometimes comedic aspects of early modern food habits, I was struck by the many similarities to modern recipes and gained a deeper understanding of the rich history behind British cuisine. I hope this project will help inform Hexhamshire Organics’ customers on the fascinating interplay between early modern and present-day uses of their favourite produce, and perhaps even provide historic inspiration for unconventional and thrifty ways to make the most of locally grown fruit and vegetables.

Grace Palmer is currently studying for her MA in history at Durham University, having recently completed her undergraduate studies there. She is writing her dissertation on poisoning as a method for resistance by enslaved men and women and white fear of poisoning conspiracies in plantation era America. Outside of academia, Grace is a keen foodie and enjoys experimenting with new vegetarian recipes. She is also an avid sports fan and shares a season ticket to her local football club with her brother. 

Food for Thought: A Medieval Experiment with Ale Pastry

By Florence Swan

Whilst digging through medieval English cookery collections for my thesis I came across a curious fifteenth-century recipe that suggests using ale to make pastry short and supple:

‘Yf ye will have your past short and sopill that ye bake with, knede hit with good ale and it will be short’.[1]

Intrigued by what appears at first to be an early English recipe for shortcrust pastry, I thought I’d give it a go. I am partnered with Blackfriars Restaurant in Newcastle for my PhD, working with their team of chefs to develop medieval culinary recipes with the hopes of better understanding their form, function, and taste balances. I discussed the recipe with Blackfriars’ pastry chef, who was hesitant about the extent to which ale would make pastry short, but wondered if it might leave a beery aftertaste.

Jug with Horseshoes, 13th century, orig. Derbyshire, England, 16x13 5/8 x 13 1/16 in., The Cloisters Collection, 2014.280, The Met.
Jug with Horseshoes [used for making and storing ale], 13th century, orig. Derbyshire, England, 16×13 5/8 x 13 1/16 in., The Cloisters Collection, 2014.280, The Met.

Before experimenting I therefore had to address some key questions: is this pastry simply ale and flour, or is it suggesting adding ale to enriched fatty pastry? What does it mean by short and supple? And why ale? Most medieval pastry was made from just flour and water, a simple case to contain looser fillings whilst they cooked, keep hands tidy whilst its contents were eaten, and often disposed.[2] There were more refined pastries for consumption such as Payne Puff which used fats like cream or egg yolks, rarely butter or lard, to enrich them, however we have limited recipes for both basic and refined pastry. Preparing pastry in large wealthy households was typically a separate job carried out by pastry chefs, not the senior cooks who appear to be the primary audience of culinary recipes, and it was such a basic function in the kitchen that, like bread, it appears to have been unnecessary to provide detailed recipes. In the late-fourteenth and fifteenth centuries there emerged what we might consider shortcrust pastry recipes, that incorporated fats such as oil or butter to make ‘sotille’ pastry, as quoted from Libro per cuoco.[3] That the term supple or soft is used to refer to pastries with shortening in other collections might suggest the ale pastry recipe of interest is intended to be made with fat, however because it simply does not say, I made pastry both with and without shortening.

Searching the Middle English Dictionary confirmed that the recipe is alluding to a crumbly pastry because ‘short’ is defined as meaning crumbly or friable, and ‘sopill’, or supple, as soft or pliable. Supple is also defined in the MED as meaning ‘a mixture containing eggs’, however I am not convinced by this definition and would be wary of suggesting this alone implies the use of eggs in this recipe.

Finally, why ale? My first thought was that is it used for its yeast content, a leavening agent creating a flakier pastry as is the case with Danish pastries or croissants. The question then follows, why not just use yeast? Although it is possible that the ‘good ale’ means use yeast derived from ale, I believe it is referring to the beverage because yeast is typically directly called for in medieval recipes, such as in Bastons in Yale Beinecke 163, which says add ‘a lytll yest of new ale’.[4] In their recreation of a seventeenth-century biscuit recipe that also uses ale, Elisa Tersigni and Jack Bouchard note that ale was historically more yeasty as it was not pasteurised (compared to modern ale that is typically pasteurised), thus it was likely to act as a leavening agent.[5] Furthermore, using ale instead of just yeast was probably efficient for making large quantities of pastry as it was readily available and meant they would not have to use another liquid to wet it, but it might also suggest the ale’s alcohol is important, as it might evaporate whilst cooking to create a crumbly pastry. Most medieval ale was made using a mixture of grains, however hops were used in its production in the late fifteenth century, from which the ale pastry recipe dates.[6] Furthermore, that the recipe calls for good ale suggests it is not a small ale with low alcohol but has a reasonable ABV. Hence, there are a multitude of factors in play when considering the nature and purpose of the ale. In this initial experiment I used a modern local brewery’s hopped ale, however I will continue to experiment with different types of ale in the future.

I first tried a lard shortcrust to see how the ale worked with a pastry I am familiar with – lard, butter, flour, salt, and a little ale. It was thoroughly tasty, crumbly and soft with a slight hint of a beery, yeast flavour. I then made two simpler pastries, one containing flour, salt, liquid, and egg yolks and one with just flour, salt, and liquid, of which I made water-based versions to serve as a control, and then ale-based variables to compare (four total). Prior to baking I found the ale-based pastries more pliable and easier to work with. After baking there was no dramatic difference between the water and ale pastries, however the ale versions were slightly crumblier. Where I noticed the greatest difference was in taste. The eggless ale pastry had a noticeable yeasty bread taste, and the pastries made with egg yolks had a rich egg flavour that was enhanced and more complex with ale, both of which I believe was the result of the beverage’s yeast. Yeast has a fermented umami flavour that complements egg, and this yeasty flavour is synonymous with bread, which is what I believe I could detect in the eggless ale pastry.

The results were not dramatic, but ale pastry is certainly easier to work with, crumbly, and the ale imparts a yeast flavour well suited to pastry, so the recipe’s advice holds true. I will continue to experiment and use ale with higher yeast content, which, I anticipate, will yield crumblier pastry. Ale appears to complement fats in pastry which might suggest it is to be used in conjunction with them to enhance the shortness of the pastry, but the recipe appears quite open and applicable to whatever ‘your past’ might be. But what is most pertinent is the culinary creativity and knowhow exhibited by the use of ale to achieve shortened pastry, and the apparent desire to make a commonplace and typically disposable foodstuff tasty; food for thought for my thesis and for those interested in medieval taste. Modern cooks are advised to take the recipe’s advice and add some ale when they next make pastry for a flavoursome result!

Florence Swan is currently studying at Durham University, where she is working on her PhD titled ‘The Transmission of Taste’, which examines food, recipes, and taste in England c.1200-c.1400. Collaborating with Blackfriars Restaurant in Newcastle, her archival research is complimented with the practical knowledge of culinary science and recipe development from the restaurant. Although a food historian, her research interests encompass a variety of topics from medieval horticulture to London urban life in the twelfth to sixteenth centuries.  

Instagram: transmissionoftaste       
Twitter: @florence_swan


[1] London, Society of Antiquaries, MS 287, f. 99v, printed in Constance Hieatt, A Gathering of Medieval English Recipes (Prospect Books, 2009), p. 136.

[2] Peter Brears, Cooking and Dining in Medieval England (Totnes: Prospect Books, 2008), p. 125.

[3] Barbara Santich, ‘The Evolution of Culinary Techniques in the Medieval Era’ in Food in the Middle Ages: A Book of Essays, ed. by Melitta Weiss Adamson (London: Garland Publishing Inc., 1995), pp. 61-81 (p. 72).

[4] New Haven, Yale University Library, Beinecke MS 163, f. 69v <https://collections.library.yale.edu/catalog/2003060> [accessed 19/01/2024].

[5] Elisa Tersigni and Jack Bouchard, ‘Savory biscuits from a 17th-century recipe’, 2018 https://www.folger.edu/blogs/shakespeare-and-beyond/savory-biscuits-from-a-17th-century-recipe/?_ga=2.80100119.1212766997.1707746077-1857904347.1660288475 [accessed 14 February 2024].

[6] Judith M. Bennett, Ale, Beer and Brewsters in England: Women’s Work in a Changing World, 1300-1600 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), p. 9.