Immigrants understand the power of a favorite snack to soothe and comfort.  The tastes of an adopted country may satisfy, but we crave the morsels of childhood—especially those left behind, continents away. Serendipity rewards the optimist though, sometimes at unexpected moments.  A fruit-laden loquat tree is discovered in a neighbor’s yard, thousands of miles from its native soil.  Bitter melon seeds carried across the ocean in a suitcase, sprout in adopted terrain.

In the sixties, my husband and his family moved from India to Iowa. Suddenly every feature of life clashed with what they had previously known—and with vehemence:  the landscape, architecture, clothing, rules of the road, language.  Even the most intuitive expressions.  Nodding was now mysteriously up-and-down.  The familiar side-to-side meant nothing in America—just a puzzling wobble.  Basic cooking staples were fundamentally different too — no grocer stocked turmeric or basmati rice.  With pioneer spirit, my mother-in-law tackled the challenge of concocting familiar food with creative substitution, an adventure of necessity given the closest Indian store was 250 miles away. Still, some things were irreplaceable. Like the ingredients for chutney — the herbs that grew rampant in the garden back home, like pesky weeds.

Chutney is a saucy staple of Indian cuisine, like salsa to Mexican food.  Varieties are plentiful:  coconut, tomato and tamarind, to name a few.  Loaded with fresh mint and cilantro, green chutney is the most basic — a condiment to pair with fried potato turnovers called samosas.  Like french fries with ketchup this is a craving to drive the expat wild with desire.  Luckily the optimist’s eyes are open to possibility. This is my mother-in-law’s story—my slightly fanciful version, that is.

Passing time on a peaceful walk one summer afternoon, a young woman happened upon an unruly garden plot in an Iowa yard.  She was new to the neighborhood.  Unsure of her surroundings.  Perhaps that’s why the robust plant sprawling across the dirt caught her eye.  Familiar somehow.  Strangely like what she knew as pudina.  Memories flashed through her mind.  She gingerly broke off a sprig and held it to her nose.  Her skin tingled as she took a slow, deep breath—afraid to break the spell.  There’d been no possibility.  Yet here it was.  Pudina.  Something recognizable in an incomprehensible world.

Another woman looked out her kitchen window on this ordinary Iowa day.  A quite different woman. The summer heat brought beads of sweat to her pale skin as she absently scrubbed the morning dishes.  A breeze washed across the open sash parting the sheer curtains.  Flashes of color in the yard caught her eye—a figure bent over the mint patch.  Looking, with purpose.  Light brown skin with black hair neatly plaited down her back, pumpkin-colored cloth wrapped her from shoulder to ankle—unusual in a place where denim skirts were native.

Oh.  I’ve let the mint go.  She’d meant to pull the weedy plant. New shoots seemed to materialize as soon as she turned her back, elbowing out the more delicate flowers and taking control like a bully.  More nuisance than it’s worth.  She carefully shut the screen door, as she stepped outside for a closer look.

The sari-wrapped woman heard the metallic wheeze of the contracting hinge.  The firm click as the door locked in place.  The footsteps.  Hair pale as churned butter and wide eyes, a washed-out blue, like faded sheets, quietly presented themselves.  With a questioning gaze.  Heat exploded across the brown cheeks and narrow back where two black braids lay still, to the small hand clutching a single plucked leaf.  The tender, faraway dream shattered and was gone like the patch of rainbow on a spring day.

In the confusion words burst forth, smooth and sure, as if uttered by another, bolder self.  Do you mind if I take a few leaves?  It reminds me of home.  The fair-haired woman paused, then smiled broadly.  The wide blue eyes sparkled with emphasis.  Please, have it all!  You must miss your home.  The devilish plant has taken over my garden.

The young woman hurried home, suddenly dizzy—her heart pulsing so hard she had to stop once to catch her breath. She’d return with her husband, a paper bag and scissors to carefully harvest the sweet, devilish herb. In the kitchen, they’d chop and sprinkle spice, from the store 250 miles away.  Then call their friends.  Come home tonight. We’ve found chutney. Yes, here!

Mint is a robust opportunist that takes over the dirt.  No worries — just pull out several big handfuls now and then.  Make a batch of chutney, or add to salads, salsas, even lemonade. Steep sprigs in hot water for a soothing after-dinner beverage to aid digestion and refresh the palate.

Recipes for the Week:

Try this Indian taste of home — wonderful on a flakey potato samosa, spread on a sandwich or whisked into salad dressing:

Indian Mint and Cilantro Chutney (Pudina aur Dhaniya Chutney) 

Here’s another country’s take on comfort: an herb-laden platter to brighten any table.

Persian Appetizer of Bread, Cheese and Herbs (Nan-o Panir-o Sabzi)

Storage Tips:

Wrap unwashed mint and cilantro stems in a slightly damp paper towel, and place in a perforated plastic bag in the fridge for use within one week. Oranges can be stored on the counter for a few days.   For longer storage, place in the fridge.  Store all other produce loosely bagged in the crisper drawer.