Food as Medicine: And the Memories We Eat

Every day, my mother watches YouTube videos about traditional medicine, nutrition, and staying fit. Almost every day, she discovers something new. Sometimes it is a new ingredient. Sometimes it is a new way to prepare something we have eaten all our lives. And sometimes, it is an instruction that finds its way straight into my kitchen.

Recently, it was moringa. We had to mix moringa into the flour before kneading. Other times, it was jowar. The form might change, but the message stayed the same: we could always add something more to our food to make it healthier. She then wonders why her grandparents and parents never told them about the nutritional value of what they ate.

Perhaps they did not know these things in the language we use today. Or perhaps they understood food differently.

Today, YouTube has become her teacher. It tells her what to eat, what to avoid, what to add to our flour, and what our bodies might be missing. Every new video seems to reveal another secret to good health.

And so, I follow the instructions.

After all, when your mother wants you to eat better, you can only resist so much. But somewhere between adding one healthy ingredient and following another nutritional recommendation, I forget what I actually love to eat.

As a child, I ate aloo parathas. They have remained one of my favorite foods even today. There is something deeply comforting about them, something that no amount of nutritional advice can replace.

Yet, when I think of the foods I crave today, I also find myself drawn towards the ultra-processed foods of modern life. The very foods that nutrition experts warn us about can sometimes seem more tempting than the simple food we grew up eating.

This leaves me wondering: when did food become so complicated?

What my grandfather called good food

Whenever I think about good food, I am reminded of a story my grandfather used to tell us as children.

He had a rather unusual way of describing what made a meal truly good.

According to him, a good meal was one prepared by a Hindu woman, served by a Muslim waiter, and eaten by an Englishman.

He said the Hindu woman brought her pious thoughts, cleanliness, and devotion to the preparation. The Muslim waiter served the food with adab, honor, and regard. The Englishman ate it with style, dressed in a suit and using a fork and knife.

Looking back, I notice who is in the kitchen, who is standing, and who gets to sit. As a child, I only heard the grace. But what I took from that story was the idea that food carries the person who made it.

In our house, it carried memories. It carried affection. And it tasted of home.

When food became medicine

We increasingly look at what we eat through a health lens. We ask whether it contains enough protein, is rich in fiber, will help control blood sugar, and will improve digestion or protect us against disease.

Food now is an important part of conversations about medicine and wellness.

In many ways, this shift is welcome. We are learning about the effects of excess sugar and salt and the importance of a balanced diet.

But the abundance of information has brought its own complications.

Every day, another ingredient seems to be added, another food to avoid, another rule to follow. A simple meal can begin to feel like a prescription. Even the humble roti is no longer just a roti. I sometimes wonder whether, in our eagerness to make food medicinal, we risk forgetting that food also nourishes our senses, comforts us, brings families together, and gives us pleasure.

The food we eat and the life we live

Perhaps the answer lies somewhere between my mother's YouTube lessons and my grandfather's stories.

We should learn about nutrition. We should be willing to change old habits when new knowledge shows us a better way.

An aloo paratha need not lose its place in my life simply because I have learned about moringa. What matters is the bigger picture: what we eat, how much we eat, and how we balance pleasure with nourishment.

Food can certainly support our health. It can help prevent nutritional deficiencies, reduce certain health risks, and play an important role in managing illness. But it is no substitute for every medicine, and adding one celebrated ingredient doesn't automatically make a meal healthy.

Another kind of nourishment is harder to measure.

It lies in the care with which a meal is prepared, the respect with which it is served, the memories it brings back, and the people with whom it is shared.

Science can tell us what nutrients our bodies need. Our memories can tell us why certain foods remain precious to us. And the wisdom of our elders, even when expressed through stories rather than scientific explanations, can remind us that eating has always been about more than keeping the body alive.

I return, then, to my grandfather's idea of a good meal. I may understand his story differently today, but I still think about the intentions behind the cooking, the dignity of serving, and the pleasure of eating.

A good meal doesn't have to choose between nourishment and enjoyment or between modern knowledge and old memories.

Perhaps it can make room for both.

My mother may keep discovering new ingredients on YouTube, and I may keep adding moringa to the flour she asks me to knead. But I hope there will always be room at our table for the food I have loved since childhood, too.

Because food is not just something we consume to keep our bodies functioning; it is something we inherit, share, and use to remember the people who came before us.

And perhaps that is where I find myself asking the question that started all these thoughts:

Is food medicine? Sometimes. But a meal that is only medicine has forgotten what it is for.