I’ve always absolutely loved food; everything about it. I’m one of those people who looks forward to lunch while still eating breakfast. Food has always been the true essence of my life. I eat to celebrate, to comfort myself when I’m feeling low, to socialize, and simply because something just tastes good. To my misfortune (or perhaps balance!), I married someone who doesn’t share the same passion for food.
He loves to exercise the way I love a good meal, which makes us quite the interesting pair. Since I can’t always gush about food at home, I thought I’d share my love and passion here with fellow food lovers who understand exactly what I mean. For most of us, our appreciation for food begins with a memory. We’re fortunate if we grew up with mothers or grandmothers who cooked with love, ensuring every meal had a unique flavour that would remind us of them long after they were gone. Those dishes became family treasures, passed down through generations.
I’ve been blessed to come from a long line of incredible cooks. My great-grandmother, grandmother, and mother all had that gift. From a simple sandwich to elaborate rice and curry spreads, their kitchens were places of comfort and community. My great-grandmother was half English and half Burgher, a mother of five and a matron at the Hospital for the Incurable. Perhaps it was her line of work that shaped her kind nature, as she often fed the hungry in her little town of Hendala. Before her shift, she would cook for her children, three sons and two daughters, making a big pot of hearty soup that could feed the whole family and any hungry soul from the village. It was packed with potatoes, carrots, beans, onions, garlic, chicken, and noodles, a wholesome, nourishing meal that could be eaten on its own or poured over rice. I still prefer eating it that way, with a spoonful of chili paste on the side. This recipe has been passed down for generations, and I still make it for my family today. In the 1980s, my grandmother would add tiny star-shaped pasta to the soup, and we kids would eagerly finish our bowls just to “reach for the stars” at the bottom.
My grandmother’s doors were always open to anyone in need of a warm meal, and my mother’s home was (and still is) a haven where friends, neighbours, and even the garbage collector could knock on the gate and be welcomed with something delicious. No meal was ever simple; there’d be rice with chicken curry, tempered beetroot, perfectly spiced mallum, and a fresh, flavourful salad on the side. My love for food truly began in that kind of home, one that was always full and where the tables never emptied. Even my paternal grandmother, who passed away more than 20 years ago, lives on in my taste memories. She was a true Southerner, and her food reflected the flavours of the South so perfectly. I still remember her fish curry as if I’d had it yesterday, rich, aromatic, and cooked in a clay pot. After serving, we’d grab some bread to scrape the last bits from the pot, that’s where all the flavour hid.
Food runs deep in my family. My paternal grandfather was the first accountant at both Maliban Biscuit Company and Little Lion. He was a hardworking man who worked as long as he could walk. I have fond memories of my Seeya picking me up from school on days my parents couldn’t. He always had a surprise tucked into his shirt pocket, a small packet of Little Lion Butter Carol biscuits for me to enjoy on the way home. He wasn’t a man of many words, but that simple gesture spoke volumes. It’s been over three decades, yet the taste of those biscuits hasn’t changed.
We enjoyed little perks from my grandfather’s job at Little Lion; fresh bread, buns, and pastries delivered daily. With three children and grandchildren living on the same compound, each household received a loaf of bread and buns for breakfast, a tradition that continued until my grandfather’s passing.
You can’t really call yourself a foodie unless you’ve hit the streets. Street food is a world of its own, and I’m proud to have been born in Sri Lanka, home to some of the best street food I’ve ever encountered. Centuries of colonization have shaped our culinary culture. Starting with Gothamba roti, which came from South India via Tamil traders and labourers, Sri Lankans have created world-famous dishes like Kottu Roti and countless other roti variations with vegetables or meat.
My mother was a clean freak, a true queen of OCD, and never let us eat at places that didn’t meet her standards of cleanliness. My father, however, was her complete opposite. He’d eat anywhere that served good food and often took me along after school. Those sneaky visits to local saivar kades and night cafés became some of my fondest memories with him. We’d go to Raheema’s or Majestic Hotel for their famous biriyani, or to Amrithaas and Saraswathi for a hearty thali or string hopper meal. For special treats, we’d stop by the old Fountain Café for an Elephant House hot dog and cream soda. Thirty-five years later, my father and I still enjoy visiting these little eateries together. I doubt I’ll ever outgrow those father-daughter meals.
The gods were in my favour when I got married, my husband being Mala3y opened new culinary doors for me. Before marriage, the only meat I ate was chicken, but afterward, I began exploring other meats and flavours. The first dish that truly stole my heart was the lamb chops at Gallery Café, and ten years later, I still love that dish. Then came the delicious, mouthwatering kanji from the mosque. Strangely, the only Muslim friend who could make it perfectly was my dear friend Shamiya, but when she migrated, I had to wait for fasting season to enjoy it again. I couldn’t possibly wait a whole year, so I learned to make it myself. Being the one-pot queen I am, I came up with a “lazy kanji” recipe that tastes exactly like the mosque version, and it earned me a million husband and mother-in-law points! I’ll be sharing that quick kanji recipe next week. Until then, I hope you’ll daydream about all the foods that made me salivate while writing this column, because that’s exactly what I’ll be doing too.
Let me start by sharing the recipe for my great-grandmother’s beloved Chicken Noodle Soup, a dish our family fondly renamed…
The Burgher Soup (Serves 4)
Ingredients
2 medium potatoes, peeled and diced
2 carrots, peeled and sliced
1 cup green beans, trimmed and chopped
1 full onion, finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
400 g Chicken
1 cup small pasta (like macaroni) or noodles (broken into short lengths)
6 cups chicken broth or water with 1 stock cubes
2 tbsp oil or butter
Salt and pepper, to taste
Instructions
The best part about this soup is that it’s a one pot dish so you just have to chop it all up and add all the ingredients in a pot and boil it well for 20 - 30 mins and its ready to eat.
Serve hot with bread (I prefer to pour to over hot rice).
