CHENNAI: Grief is something that stays with many people for years. While everyone deals with loss differently, some find comfort in food by recreating a loved one’s recipes. A familiar smell from the kitchen or a dish prepared a certain way takes one back to another time and can often become a source of comfort. We spoke to a few Chennaiites about how food became a part of their journey through grief and remembrance.
For chef Arupam Baidya, memories of his father are closely tied to food. His father, who passed away in 2024 at the age of 90, was a passionate foodie who introduced his family to ingredients and dishes in his own unique way. “If we didn’t like a particular vegetable, he would never force us to eat it. Instead, he would keep buying it! If it were bottle gourd, it would appear in dal, fish curry, stir-fries and several other dishes for days. By the third or fourth day, we would start liking it,” recalls Arupam.
One of Arupam’s strongest memories goes back to his hotel management days. After learning to cook professionally, he prepared mutton biryani and Chicken Dak Bungalow at home. “My father tasted it and said he didn’t regret spending money on my hotel management course. That comment is still with me. It was one of the first dishes I cooked that he truly appreciated,” he smiles.
The dish eventually found a place on the menu at his restaurant, Parva. Every time he thinks about it, he remembers his father’s encouragement. Another dish that reminds him of his father is Saag Mach, a rustic preparation made with fish and tender green pea leaves. The leaves are cooked with fish, lots of garlic, red chilli flakes and a few simple spices. “It was a very unique dish and unlike anything we usually ate,” says Arupam.
For food blogger Senguttuvan Subburathina, memories often arrive through flavours from his childhood. “For almost everyone, there are certain dishes that immediately bring back memories of home. For me, it’s my mother’s green gram laddus, Mysore Pak and shallots-fenugreek rasam. Even after all these years, I can still remember the taste,” he tells us.
He believes some recipes are impossible to recreate exactly. “No matter who makes them, they never taste quite the same,” he says.
For Senguttuvan, food memories are also linked to places. One place he remembers fondly is Chennai’s iconic Drive-In Woodlands. “Once every month, I would take my children there. We would sit in the car and enjoy masala dosa, vadai and aloo-poori. The taste still lingers in my memory.”
The restaurant may no longer exist, but the memories remain. “Food is never just food. It reminds us of people, places and different phases of life. Sometimes a single taste is enough to take you back decades.”
Textile artist Kalyani Pramod remembers her mother through a sweet dish prepared during Karadaiyan Nombu. “There is a sweet kootu that is usually prepared only for Karadaiyan Nombu. I loved it so much that whenever I visited home, my mother would make it for me, even if it wasn’t festival time,” says Kalyani.
Today, the dish has become a way for her to remember her mother. “Whenever I miss her, I give the recipe to my cook and ask for it to be made. That’s how I grieve her. Another dish that reminds me of my mother’s is vazhaipoo paruppu usili.
It’s not just the recipe. It’s the love with which that person cooked for you and knew exactly what you liked. That can never be recreatedKalyani Pramod, Textile artist
Whenever I see vazhaipoo, I think of her,” she says.
Kalyani believes the connection between food and memory goes far beyond ingredients.
“No matter how old we get, we never forget our mother’s cooking. Even if someone else prepares the same dish, we end up comparing it with hers,” adds the designer. She points to the Tamil word ‘kaimanam’, which refers to the unique touch a person brings to their cooking. “It’s not just the recipe. It’s the love with which that person cooked for you and knew exactly what you liked. That can never be recreated.”
Long after people are gone, their presence survives in recipes, flavours and kitchen rituals. For many, grief does not disappear. It simply finds a place at the table.