recipe for a weekend in the city
Writing
Dechen Wangmo Tamang
grab a handful of memories, best if they’ve been freshly picked from the garden in your own backyard. wash and pluck the eyelash wishes you’ve made in desperation. select your spices- salt from a wound that runs too deep, the heat of an argument gone to your head, a couple of leaves of teardrops, subtle bittersweetness from the oranges of a childhood that is already fading away from your mind.
cradle your heart beat as it thumps / thumps / thumps away to the sound of your knife against the
chopping board that you brought all the way from home because it is never enough and you need to
go back-
knead the dough. let your arms burn like the acid in the pit of your stomach when you count the days left. begin stir frying the aromatics and let the kitchen begin smelling somewhat like a time machine that is caught between memory and imagination. in a separate bowl, add the chopped vegetables, minced meat and spices. don't hesitate to sprinkle in msg; each white crystal a twinkling secret locked away between the moon and a steeping cup of lavender tea.
add the stir fried aromatics and use your hands to bring it together until your hands are oily and greasy and the smell in the kitchen is fragrant and your stomach is already rumbling as though you haven't had a meal since your last birthday. cover and let sit on the counter.
make tiny balls of the dough and roll each one- uneven like the bumps of scar tissue you run your fingers over every now and then. flour each one so that it doesn't stick and coalesce into yet another tangled web of dreams you can't quite decipher. fill each circle with the filling before pinch-fold-pinch-ing your way around the edges. place them onto your oiled metal moktus.
fill each one carefully and slowly, listening to the silence in the kitchen, the whirring of the fan. try not to think of a time you would be doing this, surrounded by laughter and community. this will be worth it. right? put on a playlist and try to drown out the loudness in the room.
steam the dumplings till the skin is soft and translucent and the meat is cooked through. there is no set time; you will learn by feel over time. while waiting, wash away the grime / dirt / grief away from the dishes, knife, chopping board, rolling pin. switch off the gas. rinse your face once. twice. under the tap in the kitchen sink till you are certain you can do this without crying.
lift the lid and immediately taste one dumpling over the steamer, mouth burning and all. feel the skin explode and it tastes nothing like home but everything like it and your stomach is growling in approval, your throat burning burning burning.
plate it. add piseko aachar. click a picture and whatsapp it to your family back home. turn on the tv in the living room and let yourself relax. finally. for extra salinity, cry over your favourite comfort show and pretend it's not homesickness that still haunts your soul. let each bite hug a ghost.
serve warm. enjoy the weekend.
Concept Note
When I first shifted from Sikkim to Bangalore, more than a year ago, the sea of homesickness that I found myself drowning in manifested itself everywhere. It was in the sky, the classes, the mugs of masala tea I wasn't used to, the sight of high rises everywhere, the lifts, and especially, the food. For my family, food has always been something we connect over. Ever since I was a child, we have prioritised eating our meals together, sharing about our days over dinner and laughing about random anecdotes. From learning to cook, watching my mom and aunt in the kitchen, to feeding my family new recipes of dishes they've never heard the names of, food became a way for me to express the love I had for my family.
In Nepali, chiya-khaja is the time between meals in the late afternoon, around four or five, when my father and aunt would return from their offices. Literally translating to tea time, it was a space where we would all sit together, with steaming cups of Darjeeling milk tea and some sort of snack, talking as if there was no end.
I never realised how much these little moments meant to me until I no longer had them as part of my daily routine. More importantly, I never realised how special the food I got at home was, until I didn't have access to it any longer. The theme 'Food for Thought' thus prompted a coalescence of memories, homesickness and desire for food, of which the end product was "a recipe for a weekend in the city." This piece is a culmination of abstract emotions and the warmest memory of community and food that I hold close to my heart. Although I have begun adjusting to life in the city, food from home will never cease to pull at my heartstrings.
Artist Bio
Hailing from a small town in Sikkim, India, Dechen has learnt the art of appreciating beauty in the small things in life. She enjoys writing and can often be found lost in thought when she isn't indulging one of her many hobbies. She's excited about the moon and tea and writing that makes her chest feel like it is caving in.
Previously, she has been published in Pulse Magazine, GenZ Writes and Vellichor Literary. She has also received an honourable mention for the Princeton 10 Minute High School Play Contest and worked on articles for Mentor Together.