‘You need to make less pasta and more rice’
The joys and challenges of feeding children in a mixed race family. Words by Ishita DasGupta. Illustration by Tomekah George.
Welcome to Vittles Kids, a special series of features, essays, opinion and a guide about feeding children at home and in restaurants. Today, Ishita DasGupta explores the complexities of culinary heritage when raising children in mixed race families.
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Until my daughter was able to speak, I was often mistaken for a childminder or nanny. On one occasion at our local park, a woman went as far as pressing a business card into my hand – mentioning competitive rates, impressed with my attitude and care. In that moment, like a neap tide exposing the rusted hull of a long-sunk wreck, issues about culture and identity that I thought I’d resolved resurfaced. Parenthood, it would seem, has a habit of doing this sort of thing.
My household is mixed-race: me, Indian/British Indian; my husband, white British, as the tick boxes for ethnicity data dictate. Our daughter, I’m often told, has my face, but her hair is closer in colour to her father’s, her eyes hazel, her skin the peachy pink tones of a rambling rose rather than the sandalwood and red earth of mine. While I knew her journey with identity and belonging would be different, what I hadn’t accounted for was how easily part of her heritage might be disregarded.
Mixed-race families like ours are nothing new, of course, and according to census data from the Office of National Statistics, mixed-race partnerships and those who identify as mixed-race are slowly growing across England and Wales. This in itself provokes a mixture of reactions, from pearl-clutching comments about racial purity and the dilution of culture to the fetishisation of mixed-race individuals, who are often held up as a sign of racial ‘tolerance’ and a bridge between communities.
“People’s experiences can be so different, depending on how they are racialised and perceived by society, no matter how they themselves may identify.”
Being the parent of a mixed-race child, I’ve tried to find out more about mixed-race experiences, and am grateful for the generosity of those who’ve been candid about sharing their journeys. A common thread is how people’s experiences can be so different, depending on how they are racialised and perceived by society, no matter how they themselves may identify. In her book Brit(ish): On Race, Identity and Belonging, Afua Hirsch writes, ‘My identity started from a place of feeling ‘other’ and alien, it evolved in conditions of prejudice and unfairness, and then grew and blossomed into something that I cherish.’ What I hope for my own daughter is that we can lay the foundations that help her bloom.
As a child of immigrants, straddling two distinct cultures – British and Indian (more specifically, Bengali) – it took time for me to understand where I belonged. Code switching was inevitable, the tension most stark after spending time with other diaspora families at the regular weekend functions held in each other’s homes.
Helping my mum in the kitchen when it was our turn to host is how I learnt to cook. During this periodic mass catering, I worked my way up from chopping, mashing and pot-watching to shaping, rolling, stuffing, crumbing and, the final boss level, applying heat and cooking things. There were no weights or measures – except, on occasion, a chipped mug that had come with an Easter egg or from a petrol station.
“So when it comes to my daughter, it is food I turn to, in the hope it may create a connection across generations and continents.”
While there is more to understanding one’s heritage than food alone, it is an accessible place to begin. In West Bengal, the recipes we cook also carry stories – of the land, trade, invasions and colonisation; moulded and shaped by many hands. So when it comes to my daughter, it is food I turn to, in the hope it may create a connection across generations and continents. Having moved away from the community I grew up in, it falls to me to forge the link.
Sometimes the enormity of this fills me with panic, especially as my elders pass on and my ties to India loosen. I take up the mantle imperfectly, stumbling over words that used to fall from my tongue with ease. I think of my Dida (maternal grandmother) who, married off at sixteen, made many sacrifices to try and free my mother and me from the unacknowledged labour of domesticity she often experienced. Now, as I seek comfort in the rituals and practices through which she was judged and defined, I wonder what she would’ve thought.
As new parents, advice around weaning babies can become overwhelming. Many swear by Annabel Karmel, while others push a burgeoning list of blogs and curated Instagram accounts. Judgement never seems far away, with a clean-eating-coded spectre lingering near the plastic-free, stick-and-stay food tray. In the end, I invest in a crinkle cutter and opt for baby-led weaning, knowing I’ll have little time to batch-prepare purées, reluctant to make meals separate to our own (salt-free, of course).
When a baby reaches six months there is the Hindu Bengali tradition of Mukhe Bhaat, or Annaprahsan, too – the celebration of a child eating their first solid food. Although we can’t perform an official ceremony, we mark it ourselves by feeding our daughter payesh – rice cooked in thickened milk, without added sugar and flavoured with cardamom. In Bengal, rice is such an important crop, celebrated and revered, it feels right that this is her first food.
As she grows older, I am keen to introduce aromatics and spices into my daughter’s meals, especially since outside the home, in childcare settings and at school, plainer choices like tomato pasta, flatbread pizza, meatballs, and roast chicken with mash and gravy rule the menu. At home, I cannot help but add a bulb of garlic to my tomato sauce; tender herbs, fennel and nutmeg to meatballs; masala butter, generously slathered under chicken skin before roasting. Although this was the case even prior to her arrival.
“I remind myself of the many flavours and textures I disliked as a child and how, in adulthood, these are elements I now savour.”
It takes time for me to realise part of my drive to introduce flavour and spice is rooted in the fear my daughter may reject Indian food. When my husband finds me crying in the kitchen after she refuses a bowl of aubergine bhorta (I have equated this to her wanting to deny part of her heritage and, in turn, me), he gently tells me to take some time out. In retrospect, I remind myself of the many flavours and textures I disliked as a child and how, in adulthood, these are elements I now savour.
Changing tack, I try to make things more fun, getting her to smell and taste ingredients, involving her in cooking. We make lutchi, mirroring her pre-school play, using andaj for the proportions of flour, ghee, and water, tweaking them to create a soft, pliable dough. She cooks them with me, rolling abstract shapes which puff beautifully in the korahi; some catch and become golden. Not the perfectly round discs, as pale as the moon, that the paragon of Bengali womanhood would dictate, but they taste delightfully unburdened when eaten with our potato thorkari.
During lockdown, when our worlds contract, cooking together becomes even more important. We make maacher chop, my daughter now five, going in with both hands, mashing potatoes and tinned tuna before grating in ginger and adding spices. I tell her stories about my childhood, her family and India, while we shape the mixture into cylinders. I show her how to coat the chop with beaten egg using one hand, covering it with breadcrumbs using the other, but she still ends up with breaded fingers. I fry the chops; then, before they have cooled fully, she dips them into homemade tamarind and date chutney, enjoying that sweet and sour taste for the first time.
To find out what other families do, I hop onto a Zoom call with MiMi Aye, writer and editor, whose family moved to the UK from Myanmar – although, MiMi explains, she prefers to use the name Burma. She shares two children – aged nine and twelve, also joining us – with her husband, who is white British. During the week, MiMi’s parents support her with childcare, so the children are familiar with speaking Burmese, as well as regularly eating regional dishes from Mandalay.
“MiMi explains that, even when Western-style foods are on the table, her mother adds flourishes in the form of side dishes, like braised red kidney beans topped with fried ginger and garlic.”
MiMi explains how these foods can be challenging for young children: the vegetables cut into varying shapes, stir-fried and served with crunch and bite; dishes sprinkled with chopped raw onions or sliced garlic. Many preparations also involve spice and a level of heat, which she and her mother tone down, focusing on a balance of sweet, warming flavours that are comforting. ‘Pwa Pwa [grandma] makes chicken nuggets and hash browns,’ Z, MiMi’s nine-year-old, interjects. ‘I love chicken nuggets and hash browns.’ MiMi laughs and explains that, even when Western-style foods are on the table, her mother adds flourishes in the form of side dishes, like braised red kidney beans topped with fried ginger and garlic, or lightly sautéed sweetcorn with wedges of fried onion.
MiMi tries to introduce her children to a range of foods, not necessarily sticking to things they like. She tells me her eldest is better with textures and crunch, while her youngest is better with spice. Her children tell me how proud they are of their Burmese heritage and that they love learning more about it. They look forward to cultural events, like Thingyan – Burmese New Year – where food is an important anchor. ‘We made mont lone yay paw this Thingyan. They were so delicious and fun,’ says twelve-year-old W. These glutinous rice dumplings are served warm, so their jaggery filling is molten. In Burma, those celebrating make dumplings together, sneaking a Bird’s Eye chilli inside every tenth one – an omen for the year to come.
I ask MiMi whether she shares my anxieties about introducing certain classic dishes and flavour profiles – for example, the Burmese delicacy Lahpet Thoke, an astringent and savoury salad made with fermented tea leaves. ‘No, not really. I just want them to eat Burmese food, in whatever form that is.’
I also speak to Sharmaine Lovegrove, founder of Dialogue Books. Now based in Berlin, Sharmaine was born and brought up in South London, her family with generational roots in Treasure Beach, Jamaica. She has three children, a son aged thirteen and twin girls aged three. Sharmaine has a blended family; she lives with her German partner and co-parents with her children’s father, who is white British and also based in Berlin. Sharmaine’s focus is to ensure her children can navigate ties across three different countries, and food plays a key role; at home they eat a mixture of British and Jamaican dishes.
Since moving to Germany, however, Sharmaine has had to adjust to how little knowledge there is of Jamaican culture and cuisine, a stark contrast to where she grew up. ‘There really is no link or understanding of my culture. So, everything that I do, especially when it comes to my kids, must be really intentional.’ The lack of access to Jamaican ingredients limits what she can offer regularly. To get round this, she heads to Brixton every time she’s in London to stock up on spice rubs, pepper mix and Encona hot sauce. On her yearly trips to Jamaica, pimento leaves and cho-cho often make their way back. ‘You know, there is a joke amongst my family,’ she says, laughing. ‘I’m Black-British, third generation, deep within my culture. Now I’m moving like my grandmother had to, bringing back supplies in my suitcase to recreate that comfort and sense of home.’
“Sharmaine hosts regular gatherings with friends and chosen family, to ‘get to the bottom of the pot,’ encouraging the kids to try unfamiliar foods when they see those around them connecting and enjoying.”
While brown stew chicken and rice have become a weekday staple, Sharmaine says there are certain dishes she can’t cook often as they’re difficult to make on a small scale. Instead, she hosts regular gatherings with friends and chosen family, to ‘get to the bottom of the pot,’ encouraging the kids to try unfamiliar foods when they see those around them connecting and enjoying.
How do her children feel about their identity? ‘The girls are still very young, but they notice differences and understand their mother is Black and their father white. My son feels happy and secure in his skin.’ Sharmaine pauses for a moment. ‘I’m always telling them stories about their heritage, their culture, their history. We celebrate differences and how it makes people special. My kids know they are cherished, they are loved.’
I ask my daughter, now ten, how she feels about her identity. ‘Proud. I feel proud to be Indian and British. It’s nice to be both.’ It feels quite normal for her, she says, rattling off the names of other children from mixed-race families in her year group – around 12% (the number of the population across England and Wales identifying as mixed-race is 2.9%). ‘Sometimes I do ask my brain whether I really belong with my Indian family, and I actually think I do. Especially since we visited Kolkata. I feel like I understand so much more.’
I ask her about Indian food. ‘I love it, except when there’s too much chilli.’ She loves dal, any dal, especially with roti, then lists various mishti (Bengali sweets) – mihidana, chandrapuli and the fudgy head of mishti doi, eaten with lutchi. She likes fish fry, chicken rezala, maacher jhol and kasha mangsho. ‘What I really love is rice. Rice with everything,’ she says smiling. ‘You need to make less pasta and more rice.’
This essay is part of our supplement Vittles Kids and is best read on our website here. To read the rest of the series, please click below:
‘That must be hard’, by Laura Goodman
The things I cook for work...and what my children actually eat, by Rukmini Iyer
Scam Patrol!, by Tim Anderson
Rukmini Iyer's Magical Children's Party Recipes, by Rukmini Iyer
The Vittles Kids London Restaurant Guide, by various.
Credits
Ishita DasGupta is a Bristol based healthcare worker and home cook, who writes about food, culture, and identity.
Tomekah George is an artist living in the UK. She creates colourful illustrations, stationery and ceramics all full of character.
This supplement was subedited by Tom Hughes, Sophie Whitehead and Liz Tray. The full Vittles masthead can be found here.
This was fantastic Ishita, I really enjoyed it - reading ‘andaj’ in a sentence without a gloss, too. Funnily enough after teaching me to cook andaj, Mum now weighs & measures things far more often than I do!
Alba proudly tells people she’s Indian and English, but if I suggest Italian or Indian seasoning for meatballs it’s ’I don’t like herbs. OR spices.’ (Obv I put both in on the sly.)
Thank you so much, Ishita, for interviewing my children and me for this beautiful, thoughtful piece!
They (and I) were delighted to talk with you and, almost more importantly, they wholeheartedly agree with your daughter’s sentiment of less pasta, more rice! (which, as you said to me, perhaps means we’re doing an ok job of Asian parenting 🤣)