Food, faith and family: how we feed our son his rich mixed heritage

My oldsters are Bangladeshi Muslims. My husband is an Ashkenazi Jew. And our child son? He’ll devour hen soup and hen curry…

Even sooner than my son used to be born, I used to believe the entire issues I’d feed my long run youngsters. They’d come house from faculty, backpacks placing off their shoulders and tummies rumbling, and ask what used to be for dinner. I pictured them round-faced and cheerful, tucking into the similar foods that I grew up with. I’d heap their plates with sizzling white rice, garlicky dal garnished with coriander, and highly spiced fried fish. They’d devour with their fingers after all, like all neatly brought-up kid of Bangladeshi beginning, deftly selecting out the tiny bones, and squeezing wedges of lime over the crispy fish pores and skin, which they’d save till remaining as a deal with, licking the tangy juice off their palms.

I already knew the pleasure I’d get from gazing them devour; and knew too, the significance of heading off chok – the Evil Eye – through announcing “Masha’Allah”, thanking God for his or her hearty appetites and obese legs. I’d educate them to mention “Bismillah” sooner than each and every meal and “Shukr alhamdulillah” once they completed, ensuring they have been conscious about the present of nourishment that they had gained.

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