Sunday Breakfast 

You could tell the story of my life in Sunday breakfasts. Of all days of the week, Sunday breakfast at home is an institution: a day of leisure, eggs, and family time. It is this time spent cooking with my dad on Sundays that fostered my love for the kitchen. I loved watching the eggs fry in spoonfuls of salty butter, and the green chillies sprinkled onto the glossy sunny yolks for an extra kick. Sometimes, I couldn't even hear the crunch of my teeth biting into a tough piece of sourdough, as my dad would blast 80's tunes on his record player all morning long. Sunday breakfast allowed me to develop my passion for cooking too, I made my first 'fancy' avocado on toast here, and many a burnt toast. What I love most about breakfast on Sunday is the memories associated with the different foods. Food memories are such basic non-verbal memories that can just bypass your regular awareness, however, when you take a bite of the food it evokes the emotions that you first felt when you ate it. You may not be able to put these memories into words but food always evokes a beautiful emotional response. Nutella on bread reminds me of my mornings before school as a toddler and buttery flaky parathas remind me of a morning at my Grandparent's house. Food memories go much beyond just Sunday breakfast, there are a lot of lived food memories or generational memories that deserve to be recorded. How most Sundays, my family would eat a traditional south Indian breakfast of filtered coffee and dosa (rice crepe) and chutney. India is a place with many states that add to its culinary diversity and richness. Culinary history and language are so closely tied together, and there have been many times when there are specific words in Hindi that capture the flavour of the food so perfectly but feel almost impossible to translate. Words like 'Chat-Pata' which means hot and sour or 'Nashta' which specifically means evening snack. Most words are so hard to translate because they capture not only the taste but the smell, and experience. In my house, people were remembered for the food they cooked, like that one aunt with the fish curry recipe or my mother with her famous salads. They were loved, rated, judged, and remembered all by their food. With every tried and tested, or failed and thrown dish my tastebuds incorporated a memory to last a lifetime. Just like Sunday breakfast, there are so many food memories I wish to record and document, so I can remember the people, stories, experiences and lessons surrounding it.