In these trying times, where chaos seems to be a daily special, and the world serves up a fresh dish of uncertainty with every sunrise, many of us find ourselves gravitating toward one reliable source of solace: comfort food. That glorious, unassuming plate of edible nostalgia that never judges you and always shows up exactly how you remember it.
In our globalised reality, we are spoiled for choice. We have sushi from Japan, tacos from Mexico, croissants from France, and a thousand iterations of pasta from every Italian grandmother who’s ever wielded a rolling pin. We live in a culinary Disneyland where even your average Tuesday night dinner can be an international escapade.
But amid the swirl of confusion cuisine and Instagram-worthy plating, we seem to keep coming back to the simpler dishes—rice and dal, delicious dosa with chutney or a bowl of something warm that smells like childhood and feels like a hug in a bowl.
Why?
Because comfort food isn’t about impressing guests or being featured in a Michelin Guide. It’s about something more primal. It’s the edible equivalent of putting on pyjamas that have been washed a hundred times and still fit just right. You don’t eat comfort food to brag about it. You eat it because it remembers you when the rest of the world forgets.
There’s a delicious irony in how we’ve been fed—pun fully intended—the idea that food must be exotic, lavish, and prepared by chefs named Jean-Luc or Alessandra to be worthy of admiration. But if you’ve ever devoured hot rice and dal or idly with peanut chutney while sitting at the kitchen table in your pyjamas, you already know: greatness isn’t always found in a gold leaf. Sometimes, it’s in that last morsel of dal rice you swore you wouldn’t eat…but did. And look at you now—still alive, emotionally fulfilled, possibly bloated, but deeply comforted.
Comfort food, as it turns out, isn’t one dish. It’s a feeling. A well-cooked memory. The phrase itself entered the cultural vocabulary back in 1966, in an article about emotional eating, of all things. The Palm Beach Post wrote: “Adults, when under severe emotional stress, turn to what could be called ‘comfort food’—food associated with the security of childhood, like mother’s poached egg or famous chicken soup.” And just like that, poached eggs had a PR rebrand that would rival any influencer’s.
But comfort food isn’t just about calories or carbs (although, let’s be honest, carbs do tend to carry the emotional weight rather well). It’s about the connection between food and the people, places, and moments that make us feel safe. It’s your grandmother’s stew, your dad’s terrible attempt at dosas, or your mum’s curry that was always just right.
It doesn’t have to be elaborate. For those who are from India, or other parts of South Asia, but live in colder countries of the world, comfort food could be something as simple as rice with curd (eaten with fingers, of course) or roti with potato curry and a bit of chilli. No fancy ingredients, no glossy presentation—just the taste of home, of routine, of everything being okay, even when the world says otherwise.
Scientists, being the curious creatures they are, have tried to dissect this culinary comfort. In a study published in the journal Appetite, researchers discovered that people with secure emotional bonds—those lucky souls who don’t flinch when someone says “We need to talk”—were more likely to find solace in food after recalling an upsetting memory.
In other words, if you grew up with consistent love and support, congratulations: your rice and dal or potato curry taste better than mine. And if you didn’t, well… you’re not alone. Just add a little extra ghee or masala. It won’t fix your childhood, but it might make Thursday night a little easier.
What’s truly charming is that comfort food doesn’t care what it looks like. It has no desire to trend. It will never be paleo, keto, or Whole30 compliant—and that’s kind of the point. It’s the food equivalent of showing up to a formal event in a kurta and saying, “This is who I am, take it or leave it.”
Take the movie Ratatouille, where a grumpy food critic is reduced to a puddle of sentimental goo with one bite of the humble peasant dish. That’s the power of comfort food: it bypasses the cerebral cortex and heads straight for the heart. It doesn’t just fill your stomach; it rewinds time. Suddenly, you’re seven again, and someone you love is telling you everything’s going to be okay—even if it’s just with a ladle and a bit of seasoning.
And yet, there persists a myth that comfort food must be “bad” for you to be good for your soul. That’s simply not true. Sure, sometimes it’s curd rice with enough dairy to alarm a small country. But other times, it’s an apple eaten slowly in the sun, or a piece of toast with just the right amount of butter (there is a right amount—don’t argue).
What makes it comforting isn’t its nutritional profile. It’s the context. The moment. The memory. You can find just as much joy in a bowl of porridge as in a chocolate lava cake—though if you’re being offered both, go ahead and be comforted twice.
There’s also the delightful awkwardness of how much we try to intellectualise comfort food. We conduct studies, write essays (like this one), analyse attachment styles, and break it down into social components. And while it’s fascinating to learn that our brains light up like fairy lights when we eat mum’s food, let’s not forget the simplest truth: it just tastes right.
In a world full of wrongs, that’s something worth savouring.
So, in troubled times like these—when the headlines won’t stop, the laundry won’t fold itself, and your phone battery always dies at 1 per cent during an existential crisis—don’t feel guilty for turning to food for a bit of peace. We all need a warm bowl of something familiar now and then, even if it’s instant noodles with a sprinkle of self-pity.
And if you find yourself doubting the legitimacy of your favourite comfort dish because it wasn’t approved by a celebrity chef, remember this: if it reminds you of someone you love, or a place where you felt safe, or a version of yourself that believed in simpler joys—then that food has done its job.
Because comfort food isn’t about indulgence or escape. It’s about connection. It’s the plate that says, “I see you,” when the world is screaming, “Toughen up.” It’s the bite that makes the bad day a little more bearable. It’s your past, your people, and your peace—served warm, preferably with a side of something crispy.
So go ahead. Add ghee to that rice and dal. Butter that toast. Slice that banana, stuff it into your chapati, and douse it with honey just like your dad used to. Make that soup that takes three hours but tastes like home. In the end, the world might still be a bit of a mess—but at least you’ll be full.
And sometimes, that’s enough.
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