Category: Susanna Yurick

The Dao – An Exploration of Bangladeshi Culture and the Immigrant Experience – Tajrian Jahan

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An icon of the Bengali kitchen, the dao, a sharp, machete-sized seated blade commonly used by rural housewives to cut vegetables and fish, is an important symbol of Bengali village culture and a part of Bangladesh that my parents did not leave behind when they arrived here some 20 years ago.

The dao is a long, curved iron blade seated on a flat plank of wood or short iron tripod, used by squatting behind it and driving meat or vegetables into the blade. Its use dates back nearly 1,300 years to the Pala Dynasty in Bengal, a Buddhist kingdom in which early Bengali culture emerged; since the dawn of Bengali culture, the dao has been associated with the woman’s role as the nourisher and sustainer of the household.

The dao is also evidence of the sacredness of the bare earth in early Bengali culture. Toiling behind a dao, sharing a meal, and sleeping were all practices performed on the ground because the Earth and its soil were sacred. With the arrival of British colonialists, furniture and stovetops began to gain popularity and we lifted ourselves off these sacred grounds; using a dao became a symbol of rural meekness against Western culture. My mother came from a riverside village in Sylhet, and I remember watching her cut the same hyacinth beans she had once watched her own mother cut; she embodied the motherly spirit of the dao, and brought the essence of Bangladesh to our small apartment in the Bronx.

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The Tawa

The tawa is a flat metal pan found in kitchens of many Pakistani households. The pan can be completely flat or concave, and is typically made of cast iron, aluminum, or carbon steel. Its origins trace back to the Indus River Valley civilization, where flat clay discs were used to cook flatbreads over open fires. These early versions were designed to distribute heat evenly, cooking unleavened bread without burning it. As metallurgy advanced, clay gave way to metal. Cast iron tawas remain the most popular due to their improved heat retention, ideal for rotis and parathas, while carbon steel versions are lighter and more modern, suited for everyday cooking and quickly heating packaged flatbreads.
For my family, the tawa is how we hold onto our Pakistani culture. We own both a convex cast iron tawa and a flat carbon steel one. My mother uses the flat tawa to make rotis and parathas for my grandparents and I, while the convex one is reserved for frying puri and daal puri. The tawa instantly brings to mind Sunday morning breakfasts — daal puri or parathas with chickpea curry and a tall cup of chai. Our household makes many kinds of flatbread on it, including chapati, naan, roti, and dhalpuri. Less conventionally, my siblings and I also use it to fry eggs and make veggie omelets.
An archaeologist studying my family’s history would find the tawa invaluable: it is the foundational instrument behind the flatbreads that form the bedrock of Pakistani diet and culture.

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The Sil-Baata

An artifact that highlights the culture of Bangladesh is the sil-batta [sheel baata]. This South Asian tool dates back to 2500 BCE during the Indus Valley Civilization. The tool consists of two parts: the rough stone slab and the stone cylindrical grinder. Used in various South Asian countries including, Bangladesh, India, and more, the sil-batta was used to grind a multitude of spices including chillies, turmeric, ginger, garlic as well as lentils. Often used while sitting on the ground, the tool required great strength to grind the various spices by rolling the cylindrical piece against the spices laid on the slab in an upward motion. The concept of this tool highlights and exemplifies the hard work, patience, and grit carried out by South Asians from many centuries ago to now. Not only is it resourceful but also scientific because manually breaking down these spices releases greater flavor due to a proper breakdown of the cells of the spices, adding to the uniqueness and special flavor of South Asian cuisine.
From my experience, I do not use this tool with my cooking, especially since it is not as prominently used anymore, even in Bangladesh. However, growing up, when I went back home, I observed many of the house-helpers using the sil-batta to grind spices which encouraged me to try out the tool when I was young, though I was not very successful at it. I found this tool very interesting and personally unique to our culture though similar techniques are also applied in other cultures. Currently, for these spices, my family and I usually use a blender/grinder to grind ginger and garlic into pastes. A lot of the spices that we use, however, are generally store bought packs that come grinded. Though, if we have time to grind the spices ourselves, we do buy the spices from the store and grind it at home.
Overall, the sil-batta and its connection to the spices it is used to prepare highlights a significant distinction in South Asian cultures to the rest of the world and reflects the novelty of South Asian foods. This tool plays a role as one of the roots that connects me back to home.

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The Power of Rice

A photo of my rice cooker

Anyone who lives in an asian household probably uses this every day. My family as well. For almost every meal, we have white rice. Eating rice with miso soup on the side is an essential everyday part of Japanese food culture, and I believe it is important to stay connected to it even when I am not in Japan.

The versatility of rice is what makes it special. Of course, you can eat it directly, but there are many other dishes you can make from rice itself. For example, you can shape the rice into a ball and put ingredients of your preference inside, called onigiri (おにぎり). You can season it with furikake (ふりかけ) or pour Japanese curry over it and enjoy it as curry rice.

The most important time of year for making rice dishes is the New Year. The rice is hammered together until it becomes one big blob, which we all know as mochi (もち). You can enjoy the plain mochi’s stickiness, or, for those who want some flavor, you can add soy sauce or sugar. The mochi is also used in soups called o’zoni (おぞうに) and oshiruko (おしるこ), both of which are traditional New Year’s dishes. The food Japanese people eat on New Year’s is different from the food they eat daily. My family sets up an entire feast, and instead of eating white rice, we eat mochi and other traditional New Year’s delights.

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Cookie Tin

Cookie Tin

Although my artifact, a blue Danish cookie tin, didn’t originate in Pakistan, where my family and I are from, it’s been used in my family for almost 20 years. The tin originally came into our possession when guests brought over Danish butter cookies as a gift. After the cookies finished, we decided to reuse the tin due to its durability and sturdiness. Since then, this tin is always found on the corner of my counter, filled with flour that we use to dust our work surface when making different types of bread, from naan and roti to chapati and paratha.

This tin truly identifies the importance of resourcefulness in my family because instead of throwing out the cookie tin after the cookies finished, my family reused it. This tin specifically is perfect due to its durability, lightweight material, and depth, which makes it practical to hold flour and dip dough balls in. It also demonstrates the importance of bread in our family since it is eaten with almost every meal. After talking to my mom about this tin, she explained that in Pakistan, flour was traditionally stored in straw containers rather than metal tins, since Danish cookie tins like this were not very common there. Overall, my family’s continuous use of this container shows meaningful memories and significance, since it highlights how migration can also lead to the exposure of different products, like this cookie tin, that might be used in place of traditional family objects, like the straw containers.

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Borhani

Borhani is a traditional Bangladeshi yogurt-based drink known for its spicy, tangy, and savory flavor. Deeply rooted in Bengali culture, it holds a special place at weddings, Eid celebrations, Ramadan iftar gatherings, and other festive occasions. Served chilled alongside rich dishes like biryani or tehari, borhani not only enhances flavor and aids digestion but also symbolizes hospitality and togetherness during large family and community events. The drink is made from a blend of sour yogurt (tok doi), sweet yogurt (misti doi) or sugar, mint, cilantro, mustard seed paste, green chili, black pepper, and lime juice. For many Bangladeshi families, including mine, borhani carries emotional and cultural significance. Although New York City’s diverse neighborhoods—such as Jackson Heights, Astoria, and Jamaica—offer a variety of Bengali foods, borhani remains a rare specialty we prepare at home, connecting us to our roots and memories of Bangladesh.
A deeper look at borhani reveals the drink’s historical and social dimensions within Dhaka’s culinary identity. Influenced by Mughal and Persian traditions, it reflects how yogurt-based drinks and aromatic spices traveled through empires into Bangladeshi cuisine. Differences in recipes, preparation styles, and availability also highlight social and class differences in Dhaka—from elaborate wedding feasts to adapted versions sold by local vendors.

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Date Origins

Dates are one of the oldest fruits people have grown, with farming going back more than 7,000 years to ancient Mesopotamia and the Arabian Peninsula. They played an important role across the Middle East and North Africa before many other crops were around, used as sweeteners, trade goods, and even fermented into wine.
In Islam, dates have a deep meaning. The Quran mentions them around 20 times, and the Prophet Muhammad is known to have broken his fast with dates and water. This tradition continues today, especially during Ramadan. In my family, iftar always starts with dates right after the Adhan, just like it did all the way back in Guyana. It’s not only sunnah, but a tradition I’m not sure will ever end for me. Dates are also included in the Bible and the Torah, where they also carry symbolic meaning in both Christianity and Judaism.
On top of tradition and religion, dates are very healthy. They have fiber, potassium, magnesium, and antioxidants, and their natural sugars give quick energy that especially helps after a long day of fasting. The pit inside, which most people throw away, can be ground into a caffeine-free drink called date seed coffee and has also been processed for centuries into kohl, a traditional eye cosmetic still used across the Middle East and South Asia.
There are several kinds of dates, each with its own taste and texture. Medjool dates are soft and caramel-like. Ajwa dates, grown in Madinah, are darker and richer. Deglet Noor dates are firmer, drier, and a little nutty. If you’ve never had one, try a Medjool first. It’s easy to find and sweet enough to show you exactly why people love them. They’re sweet, soft, and way better than any candy.

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Uzbek Qozon

Two men stir a giant cast iron pot filled with food.

My grandmother has a qozon that looked like the one in the image, only much smaller. It was old and well-used. This is the qozon that made the food that my mom was raised on throughout her entire childhood. This is the qozon that made the food I was raised on during my childhood. It’s not a cooking utensil or a tool; at this point it’s an heirloom. It’s older than I am. It’s probably older than my mom. Its provenance, at least as far back as I can trace it, begins with my grandfather’s mother, who then passed it on to him. Being a stereotypical Uzbek man and not knowing how to cook, he gave it to his wife (my grandmother). My mom hopes to inherit it one day.
It’s funny just how much of Uzbek culture can be explained by this. Uzbek dishes are efficient: large and calorie-dense, a leftover (see what I did there?) from our nomadic days when little could be preserved and even less could be carried on the backs of horses. Because of this, Uzbeks traditionally have no concept of leftovers. My grandmother would cook three meals a day, every single day, each one big enough to fill this qozon to near-overflowing. The qozon is perfectly hemispherical, so an Uzbek kapkir (spatula) can very efficiently stir the food and scoop it out onto the plates of my grandmother’s four children. The pure cast iron gets hot and stays hot, and the material only gets stronger over time as it polymerizes with every use, preserving itself for future generations.
The second image is an example of a qozon used in communal cooking. These huge qozons are called “forty-ears” because they traditionally had forty handles, called ears, around the rim, and it would take forty men to carry them, one for each ear. There are restaurants in Uzbekistan that specialize only in one dish, osh, the national dish of Uzbekistan. The restaurant Besh Qozon makes portions of osh that weigh 350 kilograms (771 pounds).
I’ve had to describe it so many times, and each time I’m left underwhelmed because it’s impossible to experience it adequately (let alone authentically) unless you see it being made in front of your very eyes. It consists of Uzbek rice (not basmati or jasmine), julienned orange and yellow carrots, beef or lamb, spices, and toppings like whole peppercorns, raisins, quail eggs, stuffed grape leaves, whole garlic heads, or even quince. All of the toppings are not used at once; quince and garlic do not go well together. My favorite is fried in linseed oil, but the fanciest osh is made with dumba, the fat of a special type of ram only found in Central Asia.
Because osh comes in so many different forms, it is used in every aspect of Uzbek life: regular ol’ osh at home, fancier osh at restaurants and celebrations, and even fancier to’y oshi for weddings. The wedding, being the most important event in Uzbek culture, naturally gets the fanciest osh with all of the toppings. At the most old-fashioned of weddings, a ram and a big qozon are brought to the home of the bride. I think you can see where this is going. A butcher is called, the ram slaughtered, and some of the male relatives of the bride cook osh for the wedding. These days, things have become a bit more modernized. To’ylar (weddings) are usually held in to’yxonalar (wedding-houses), huge event halls specifically made for Uzbek weddings, which include 500 people on average.
From to’ylar to dumba to paxta-gul to osh, the qozon truly connects every facet of Uzbek culture together.

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Calabash

A calabash used as a bowl

The calabash is a versatile and culturally significant plant that has been cultivated for thousands of years across Africa, Asia, and the Americas. Belonging to the gourd family, the calabash plant produces large, hard-shelled fruits that can be used both as food and as containers. When young, the fruit is edible and often cooked like a vegetable, providing a source of nutrition in many traditional diets. Once matured and dried, the hard shell becomes a durable material that has been used for centuries to make bowls, cups, musical instruments, and even utensils. This dual-purpose nature of the calabash has made it an essential part of daily life in many cultures.

In addition to its practical uses, the calabash carries symbolic and cultural meaning. In West Africa, calabash gourds are often intricately decorated and used in ceremonies or as gifts. Musicians in various African and Caribbean communities use calabash shells to create instruments such as the shekere, which produces rhythmic sounds essential to traditional music. In Latin American cultures, the dried calabash is used to make containers for mate tea, highlighting its continued role in everyday life. The plant also appears in folklore and storytelling, often representing abundance, creativity, and resourcefulness.

Calabash also has a personal significance in my family. My dad is from Jamaica, and when I was born, my grandmother, his mother sent up a bowl made from a dried calabash and told my dad to feed me from it, with porridge, cereal, or fruits. She said it was so I could learn to talk faster. Once I learned how to speak, I didn’t use it anymore, but that wasn’t the end of the story. My younger sister later began using the calabash, and, as you might expect, she learned to speak faster than I did. This family tradition shows how the calabash is not only a practical object but also a symbol of heritage and cultural continuity.

Beyond its cultural and personal significance, the calabash is environmentally sustainable. It grows quickly, requires minimal care, and can thrive in diverse climates, making it a reliable source of food and material for local communities. Its adaptability and multi-functionality illustrate the ingenuity of human societies in utilizing natural resources. Overall, the calabash is much more than a simple plant; it’s a symbol of tradition, utility, and identity that continues to impact lives worldwide.

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Great Grandmother’s Cast Iron Skillet

The cast iron skillet has a long history of migration. The cast iron has its origins in China as early as the 5th century B.C.E. and only began to be imported to Europe in the 14th century C.E. on the trade networks of the Silk Road. During the industrial revolution in Europe and the United States from the 18th and 19th centuries C.E., cast iron cookware became a relatively cheap and incredibly sustainable way to feed families. For many enslaved African American domestic cooks or kitchen laborers, the cast iron skillet became a tool of both oppression and survival used daily. During the Great Migration, these durable appliances were one of the few items that these families could bring with them and impart onto their descendants.

I started my cooking journey in 2023 in my junior year of high school with a longer history of baking stretching back to middle school. Since my first semester of classes at City College last summer my cooking skills have been developing rapidly because I began cooking lunch for myself as often as I could. I feel confident with the oven, stovetop pots, instant pressure pot, and toaster oven we have but the one tool I feel disquieted to even begin using is our cast iron skillets. My family has few heirlooms in our apartment, and our one inherited cast iron skillet is perhaps our most cherished. One of the skillets belonged to my father’s grandmother, and where she got it I don’t know. She was born in 1920 in Maryland and went on to move to West Virginia and raise six of her own children and helped bring up my father and his sister there. Their cousins would also frequent the house growing up, and she often fed up to seven children off of soul food from the two cast iron skillets she had – the one I have today and another deep-dished skillet that’s still in West Virginia. As an African American family growing up in a 96% white state, some of the memories that still bring the most joy in the people she raised and loved is the food she cooked in those skillets in the challenging times of Jim Crow civil rights struggles that they all endured.
When my father traveled from New York back to West Virginia to attend her funeral in 2002, the only thing he physically took back with him was one of her cast iron skillets.
Today her cast iron skillet rests proudly on our stovetop, too emotionally significant to be pushed into the oven with our other pots and trays. My father’s grandmother handled her two cast iron skillets with great care and love for years of her life, and I don’t even know how to season or clean them. My apprehension to use her skillet is out of respect for all she’s done and fear of underwhelming or disappointing her legacy. But I suppose the first step in treating her skillet properly is to practice upkeep and preservation of it.

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