pen.books.and.scalpel

BOOK NAME: CRYING IN H MART AUTHOR NAME: MICHELLE ZAUNER GENRE: MEMOIR PUBLISHER: PANMACMILLAN BOOK BUY LINK:  https://amzn.in/d/5sDEb6N BOOK RATING: 3.5/5   BOOK COVER IMAGE BOOK REVIEW Crying in H Mart is a memoir written poignantly like fiction where the author speaks about her lost Korean identity that she tries desperately to revive after her mother’s passing. She is initially overcome by the grief of her mother’s cancer diagnosis and then by her loss. All the while she tries to survive with food as a coping mechanism which she feels keeps her mother and her identity alive.   The best part of the book is how the author tries to string together tales of food with her mother’s memories—the late-night meals they used to have, the one food that she loved, the food that she had on her death bed—with her Korean-American identity and later used it as a coping mechanism and to reconnect with her past.    I chose this book after having it on my T...

Well, many of you know that biryani which is made with dedication and love on the day of Eid, eaten together as a family, and shared with the loved and needy is the star dish of the special day. But the real hero, the underrated gem of the occasion is the Eid breakfast prepared as early as dawn before rushing to prayers only to have it after our obligations are done.   In a Tamil Muslim household, idly with chicken curry or gravy is always the norm as far as I have known. I know that it has been the talk of the town recently but trust me when I say we have been having this combo in every Tamil household ever since. It has been passed down generations and is one of the best, criminally undervalued combinations ever to exist. To have a chunk of soft, cushiony idly dipped in the aromatic, spicy chicken curry with a soft, succulent piece of meat as the first meal of the day is a blessing. Rarely do maida or wheat parottas appear as add-ons if Ma has time and a helping hand.  ...

I recently discovered the mood board by chance and haven’t stopped using this GenZ-found trend ever since. I cannot describe in words how therapeutic it is, especially when I am down and exhausted and don’t want any major writing or reading done. So, for a lot or all of this writing challenge, you are going to see me posting mood boards one after the other.   I am someone who tries to keep emotions and memories related to a person or place alive through food, among many other things. And here is a mood board, or more like a food board, including all the food that reminds me of my year-long stay in Odisha last year. We did have bad and worst food days as well, but I am going to brush them off because I did find some of the best food memories there.    The Cuttack Biriyani - One of the major struggles I faced in Odisha apart from learning their nuanced language and their indifference to Hindi was finding a food that would match my South Indian palate. But it did not ta...

As we brace ourselves for the arrival of who knows who, my parents and Bhai are holding a brief internal discussion. They still do not trust that I might be innocent. I cannot blame them, though. For one thing, I hit my now-friend, then frenemy and got suspended. They do not give away too much, but their forehead creases deepen, and their voices grow crisp, meaning it might be more significant than I imagine.   Through the crowded, fussy hall, our neighbourhood chai master, whom I vaguely remember from a long ago, enters. Almost like the star of the moment. He looks at me, his lips turning into a grin, and I immediately realise why he is here.    “We knew you don’t hold so much trust in your own child as much on a third person. So, we brought him here with us,” Ms. Srija says, clear enough for everyone to hear it. “Why? He is the tea master from near your school. What is he here for?” Bhai retorts. “How did you get him here?” I ask Christy, who is still standing clum...

This time, the knock is coming from the door. I had locked it just in case someone entered unannounced. I move lazily to the door, but I stop just a few feet short instead of opening it at once. I hear voices outside, familiar ones, supportive ones. I consider waiting for a couple more minutes, but there is a tap again. It is Cyra at the other end. “You are wanted in the hall,” she says and disappears in a jiffy.   I saunter anxiously toward outside my room, days after I made my room my cocoon. Only after Christy hops onto my side and hugs me do I realise the team is from my school: Christy, my classmates, my teachers, and Ms. Srija. A wave of relief washes over me. I still scan around for that one familiar face whom I eagerly await to catch hold of. But she isn't here, at least for now.    “Your Bhabhi has not come. She said she would not step into this house,” Christy murmurs in my ear. “That's fine. She has her reasons,” I reply dejectedly. “But she ensures that ...

I lay unaware of the dates rolling on the calendar. The sun goes down and up alternately, and yet my routine remains the same. I don't have a clue about the world outside. I don't know if Aliza Bhabhi’s divorce is over. I am unsure if people even care about me anymore.    I stay lost in thoughts and stare at the yonder beyond my window. I can still taste the soup I had in the morning. It was a special dish made with care by my brother’s new wife. It tasted okay, nothing like Aliza Bhabhi’s warm bowl of shorba wrapped in spices and love. But I don't want to judge her too soon. As I reminisce of my morning meal, the window screen flutters, which I had asked Ma to put up recently to avoid getting jump scares from Salim. But I don't think it would be of any use anymore.    A tap on the window quickly makes me stumble out of bed. I cover myself with my blanket in a reflex. The tapping intensifies, and my shudders, too. Through the flapping screen, I see a familiar fac...