Part 10: Food is Love

May 2, 2022 Choyghoria, Batiaghata,

District Khulna, Bangladesh

When I think about this last month, one word comes to mind: food. Mama Cheryl used to say: “In Bangladesh, food is love.” I have felt very loved this last month. There is one downside, though. My plan of returning to the states after two years to reveal a stunning weight loss has completely flown out the window. It seems each time I turn around, there is more food. Here are a few stories:

I was sweeping my balcony one afternoon and caught the attention of the people working at the incense stick factory next to our house. We’ve become quite good friends, and usually shout “Good morning!” or “What are you doing?” when we see each other. This time, they ask me why I am cleaning, as we have a maid who comes every morning. I inform them that I am also able to work, so why shouldn’t I?

“Can you cook, too?” they ask. Having worked at restaurants for most of my youth-life, I almost take offense. But then I remember that these people have only known me for seven months. Yes, I can cook, I tell them. “Can you make pumpkin cake?” one of the ladies asks. She has never had it, and has always wanted to try it. I am not totally sure if she is serious about her order until she says: “Is it a lot of trouble for you to make it for us?”

I walk to the bazaar a few minutes later and purchase my very own pumpkin to turn into pumpkin cake. I bake it in a big cookie sheet so there will be enough for our family too. It was one of the scariest pumpkin cakes I had ever made. I wanted it to be perfect. I carefully cut it into even squares and load a capacious amount into a 9x13; maybe 20 squares. This should be more than enough, I thought, as there are about 10 people who work there. The next day, I am barely able to gather the courage to take them over. The manager is outside building a massive box kite, and I feebly take my pan of pumpkin cake and set it in front of him. He yells in a voice loud enough for the whole village to hear: “Miss Kalli made pumpkin cake for all of us!”

My worries were for naught. The pan got completely cleaned out.

The night after the pumpkin cake incident, there was a mela in the field across from our house. Bangladeshi people come up with any excuse they can to have a party. However this night, April 14, they had a valid reason: Bangladeshi New Year. Various food trucks, toy vendors, and even a hand-powered carousel were arranged haphazardly beneath a hazy sky.

Whitney and I ran into Bishnu, our old guard, and two of our other neighbor friends. They insisted that we sit with them and eat some street food. After we had filled our stomachs to the brim, they informed us that we weren’t done. We simply had to eat more. When they deemed it acceptable to be done eating, we walked around the mela. Three different people bought us ice cream. Another person shoved peanuts into our closed fists. Still another person handed us a bag of fried tortilla-like thingies. They must think our stomachs are as bottomless as theirs.

We happened to be at Brother Shanto’s one afternoon when Hridoy suddenly acquired the inspiration to make am makha. Am is the Bangla word for mango, and makha means “when

you mix lots of stuff with different kinds of food,” as Hridoy explained it to me. The mangos won’t be ripe for another month, but that is perfect for making am makha. The unripe ams are a bit tart, but when mixed with their hot chili peppers, garlic, salt, and a teeeeeensy bit of sugar, they all blend to create a perfect masterpiece.

A few days later, I was again on my balcony. Suddenly I hear: “Miss Kalli!” I look down to see one of the factory guys with a bowl in hands. “Come and eat am makha!” Well now, I knew that am makkha was one of the most beautiful foods found in this country, as Hridoy had already fed it to me. I raced down the stairs and headed for the factory. We all sat in the shade, half our family, plus Tulshi, our guard, and all the factory workers, eating am makkha together.

Hridoy called me again one morning. “Didi, I made chanachur makha. Are you going to come eat it or what?” (Chanachur is a spicy party-mix like food, and makha is makha, as explained before.) I asked him when I should come, and he said “right now!”

Brother Shanto’s house is either a 30 minute walk, or a 10 minute van ride, whichever you choose. I told Hridoy I’d be there in 20 minutes. Brandi, Whitney, and I sat on their front porch and munched on the painfully spicy (but delicious) snack food. They then brought out cups of am juice, made from mango, sugar, hot chilis, and a little bit of water. Before we left, Sister Shati invited us the next night for more food.

We opted to walk back home. Just around the corner from our house is our favorite cha dokan. We passed the cha dokan, and discovered that our favorite neighbors were sitting inside. They gave us no option. “Imon is making cha for you. Come inside!” Once we were done drinking, I set my cup on the table and stood to leave. “Where do you think you’re going? You must learn to relax. Sit for just five more minutes.”

Another time, I was playing in the yard with the kids. I could hear voices coming from the factory. I wondered what they were doing there; it was already evening. Suddenly, I hear my name again: “Miss Kalli!” I look in the direction of the voice to discover a pair of eyes looking at me from behind a window across our fence. “Come over here. Tulshi is here too.” So, Brandi and I grab our flip-flops and head. Upon arriving, we discovered that the 2 factory guys, our guard, and their friend had returned from fishing in the river. They had, of course, made food to celebrate the occasion. This time, it was muri makha and coke. (Muri is popped rice; makkha is makkha, as explained before. Coke is still coke.) The entire family came once again, and we all chowed down on muri makha and good ole coke.

At some point, someone has caught on that I like to drink fresh dabs. A dab is a green coconut that holds delicious and refreshing water. Green coconuts and I have not always had a friendly relationship. The first time I ate one, I was sicker than a dog. Now, I love them. Maybe it's the fact that they’re better fresh out of the tree. Anyway, anytime the neighbor man climbs a coconut tree, I am beckoned to come and drink one. I think they see it as a race: who can drink their coconut the quickest. My foreign stomach cannot take such action, and I am usually only half done by the time they are cutting theirs open to eat the meat inside. And then they look at me and say “what, don’t you like it?” I answer the same each time. “I am a foreigner, and I cannot eat like you.”

We stop by our friend’s house to see his latest project. “Sit, sit, stay only 5 more minutes,” he insists. I can smell eggs frying, and I dare a glance into their outdoor kitchen. Sure enough, his mom is bent over her chula, frying eggs for us. The next time we show up at his house, we are served melon and water. At another friend's house, the eldest is sent to fetch chairs for us, and we are served muri. I go to see little Piyash, 7 years old, who has come down with a fever. I am offered a chair and served three massive slices of melon. “Sit,” and “eat,” seem to be their two favorite words.

For all the eating these people are making us do, we plan on giving back. We have invited our favorite neighbors for an American meal. The date is yet to be set. We told them we would feed them American food, and we will pile their plates until their stomachs are screaming for mercy. After all, food is love. _____________________________________________________________

The days are hot. Even the natives complain about the heat. I took the kids to the river one day, and they enjoyed cooling off in the mud and salty water. I have been enjoying my AC at nights, and tall glasses of iced tea in the afternoons.

The storms have started. They always shut the power off right before they hit. If you stand outside, you can hear the wind approaching from a distance. Palm trees violently sway in the gusts as lightning lights up the darkened village. The thunder is so beautiful: it reminds me of home.

Our guard, Tulshi, has taken several days off to help cut rice before the big rains come. I can see him and his brother, our old guard Bishnu, bent over the tall stalks of dhan under the sweltering sun. I should take them some iced tea and cookies. I should haul chairs out to the middle of the field and demand they sit for at least 5 minutes. I should insist that they eat at least 10 cookies each, and then feign offense when they say they are full. That is what they do to us. Because, after all, food is love.

Our school program is scheduled for the 21st of May. Jara and Dean arrive on the 25th. I don’t think I need to tell you how excited I am about this. I want them to get the full Bangladesh experience. I hope they have to sit in a traffic jam when the AC suddenly goes out. I hope they get greeted by cockroaches when they open the knife drawer. I hope they get swarmed by beggars when we take them to the market. I also hope they get to drink a dab in the shade, take a rickshaw ride through colorful Dhaka, and sit in a cha dokan and learn how to relax.

Who thought I could write such a long letter about food? But then again, is anyone really that shocked?

Come see me,

-Kalli