There’s something I need to get off my chest. It’s about food. Sure, I love food in India, and sometimes I think I’ve become addicted to specific foods—idli—mmm, those steamed white pillows of fermented rice and urud dahl batter, spongy and friendly. Morning and night—with coconut, peanut, tomato, or mint chutney. Oh so yummy. I love I love it. And dosa, fried crispy and rolled up, parotha, vegetable bryani, uttapam, pongal, lemon rice, curd rice, mint rice—I can eat mounds of rice in India. Yes, I love the food, the spices, the textures, the way it feels hot and squishy in my hand as I scoop it into my mouth. But what I need to unload are my feelings about eating the food in India. At times, eating here baffles me. “Have you eaten?” That’s a
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